The Rift Saga
by Pure Sabacc
Summary: In the tradition of the Star Wars Star Trek crossover, the fates of universes manifold are intertwined, and placed in the hands of a few lost beings, displaced in space and time.
1. Default Chapter

Chapter One

_Captains Log: Stardate 45792.3_

_The Enterprise has been removed from patrol duty along the neutral zone and dispatched to the Orion Gammalon system to an observation platform that has been monitoring an unusually large metrion nebula. Apparently the nebula has begun to expand around the remote station and we need to recover its recording equipment before the nebula engulfs it completely. _

Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise –D sat in his chair on the smooth, contoured bridge. Around him various ensigns worked the controls, conversing with each otherquietly. Jean-Luc stared out into the bridge monitor, watching the stars streak by. He enjoyed these calm reflective moments; they seemed to be coming more infrequently of late. The Enterprise always seemed to be exactly in the right place at the right time for something to go wrong. Not that he was complaining, he wouldn't trade this post for even the admiralty. He was always on his toes and this time was no different, unexpected things had happened under even more routine missions.

On the platform above him, Chief Engineer Geordi Laforge and Lieutenant Commander Data were finalizing an appropriate transporter modulation for use near the nebula. " Hmm, maybe if we couple transporters two and five together, we can increase the transportation range," said Geordi, examining a representation of the nebula on the display screen. Data tapped a few buttons, entering the situation. " That will decrease the time elapse of the Enterprise's exposure to high levels of metrion by twenty five seconds," Data replied, still looking at the display. Geordi entered the new data into his recording pad. " All right, I'm going down to engineering. We'll want to get that station's information into the computer as soon as we get the core on board." He walked to the turbolift as it opened. From it walked Commander William Riker, fresh from breakfast in Ten-Forward. Geordi gave the commander a nod of respect and continued past him into the waiting turbolift.

Riker took his seat to the right of the captain. " Feeling better Number One?" Picard asked with a slight smile. The second in command had been recovering from a bought of Tammaranian flu which had placed him out of duty. It was remarkable, Picard mused, that even a mild, non-threatening virus could take one of the Federation's best officers out of commission for days. Riker gave a little nod, a smile drifting across his face. " Well, Doctor Crusher's bedside manner is one of the perks of serving on this ship." It was true; Beverly Crusher and her staff had treated nearly everyone on the ship, and had saved the lives of more than a few of them.

The two officers sat in silence for a few moments. After weeks traversing the depths of space, one ran out of things to talk about. Besides, Jean-Luc was one for small talk, at least not in the morning. Fortunately, the ensign at the helm, Pierce Picard remembered, broke the awkward silence. " Entering the Orion Gammalon system sir," he said checking the ship's position on the terminal in front of him. The captain and Riker straitened up in their chairs. "Slow to impulse speed," ordered Riker.

Picard watched the starlines shrink away, revealing the glimmering blackness of space, a faint shimmering in the distance. "Is that the nebula?" the captain asked, hunching forward. "Aye sir," replied the ensign. "Magnifying now."

The viewscreen changed, revealing an up close look at the stellar anomaly. Most metrion nebulae were very small and unstable, rarely larger than a small moon. This one however was vast, covering most of the systems western quadrant. It shimmered with minute gravimetric distortions and ion pluses. Some federation scientist had postulated a metrion field of sufficient size might be used to open a stable wormhole, facilitating exploration and travel throughout the galaxy beyond the capabilities of any warp capable starship. This is why a passing science vessel a few months previous, in order to try and chart the behavior of the unstable cloud, had dropped the small, automated monitoring satellite. Unfortunately, the cloud had begun to destabilize and expand threatening disable or destroy the drone. The Enterprise was to move close by, transport the entire satellite onboard, and depart before the dangerous metrion radiation began to affect the crew. A difficult maneuver, but the captain his crew was up to the job.

As the ship moved closer to the coruscating mass, Data reported from the science station. "The Enterprise will be in optimal transport range in five minutes," he stated. Riker stood up and walked over to Data's station. "How long can we stay in the nebula's radiation field before the crew starts being effected," he asked, looking over Data's shoulder at the screen. The android responded promptly. "Even with our shields lowered for transport, it should take fifty seconds for the crew to start feeling any adverse effects." Data typed in a few figures. "With shields raised, eight minutes. Sufficient time to retrieve the monitoring station and pass beyond the radiation field." Still, Riker thought, it wasn't a very wide margin of error. But he, like the captain, trusted the crew. Just in case though, the Doctor was standing by with radiation treatments for the crew.

As Riker walked back to his chair, the other helm officer, a Vulcan by the name of Lomout reported. "Entering the nebula's radiation field. Transportation range in three minutes."

Down in the main cargo hold, Transporter Chief Miles O'Brien was making some last minute adjustments to the particle reception pad. He much preferred using the personnel transporters on the main decks, but the Satellite was a bit too large. The Chief looked up as two engineers brought in the hoverlift they were going to use to transfer the observers core to engineering. Geordi was worried that the core had been corrupted by the radiation and wanted what was left of the information in the Enterprise's protected electronic storage pathways before any more damage could be done.

Miles was about to back to his calibrations when he noticed Engineering Lieutenant Barclay on the other side of a stack of crates, a safe distance from the transporter. The chief shook his head. Barclay had been sent to help O'Brien with the last minute transporter modifications, but he hadn't been much help so far. "Hey Barclay," Miles called in his thick, Irish accent, annoyance tingeing he voice. "The transporter isn't going to bite you ya know." Barclay muttered something unintelligible and embarrassed, trying to make himself look busy with a data pad.

"Eh?"

Barclay looked up, a faint red tone developing in his cheeks. " I…. um, was checking the uhh…distortion levels from the nebula," he said, still jabbing at the pad. O'Brien shrugged his shoulders expectantly. "Oh, um. The readings all check out. You're clear to… um proceed," with this, Barclay started to wander off toward the two engineers with the hoverlift, further from the transporter. O'Brien shook his head again sighing. Barclay was notoriously difficult to work with, even since his therapy with counselor Troi. At least no one called him Broccoli anymore, a name young Wes Crusher had come up with. The captain had ordered that stopped when he himself had let it slip in Barclay's presence. The chief finished his last minute check and had walked to the control pad when he got the order.

Picard's voice came over the comm, "You may transport when ready Mr. O'Brien."

Back on the bridge, things started to go wrong. An indicator on the science display began blinking. Data analyzed it quickly. "Sir, I'm reading a surge in ionic activity emanating from the nebula." On the viewscreen, the cloud of energized particles began to change color, shimmering from sliver to cerulean in a roiling wave. An alarm klaxon sounded. Ensign Lomout called from the sensor station. " Metrion radiation levels rising exponentially." Data worked the science station at lightning speed. "Dangerous levels of radiation in eight seconds." Riker jumped to his feet. "Shields up!" As Worf, who was at Ops, punched in the command, the cloud began to boil, shooting out jets of matter, blocking the satellite from view. One of those jets was hurtling towards the Enterprise.

"Evasive action! Move us out of range!" ordered the captain, moving to the chair of the helm officer. The Enterprise dove under the roiling wave and preformed a sharp 160-degree turn and hurtled away from the collapsing nebula. The violent turn threw those standing on the bridge to the floor. Behind the fleeing starship, the stellar cloud continued to release massive streams on metrion particles. Then the jets pulled back, and with them rest of the nebula. The shimmering field swirled momentarily into a miniature spiral galaxy, and then in a blinding flash of light, the cloud disappeared.

Riker was helping Picard to his feet. He dusted himself of and stared into the viewscreen. "Report." Data scrambled back to his consol and checked it. "I am not entirely sure sir. The nebula may have reacted in an unexpected manner when subjected to our transporters."

"Damage report."

Worf looked over his controls. "No structural damage. We were able to pass out of range before the radiation levels became dangerous." His display blinked. "No reports of casualties." Riker finished collecting himself, and then tapped his comm badge. "Chief, did you get the satellite before we raised shields?" There was no response. "Chief?"

Then a reply came, "No sir, I lost the probe but… well, you better get a security detail down here." Riker and Picard exchanged dubious glances. It looked like the recovery mission was about more interesting, and on the Enterprise, interesting things rarely ended well.

Chapter Two

Riker, along with Worf and a detail of armed security officers disembarked from the turbolift on deck 15, rushing through the halls towards the main cargo bay. The officers they passed in the halls, some still disoriented by the abrupt maneuvers, pushed out of their way. When the team came to the cargo bay door, they found it open, and moved inside. Several people including Chief O'Brien were clustered around the transporter pad, which did not, in fact, hold the science satellite. Upon closer inspection, it was evident that there were in fact bodies. Five humanoid forms lying on the platform. Riker sprinted over to O'Brien to ask what had happened, if there had been an accident among the crew, but he stopped dead when he got a closer look at the prone forms.

One at least was obviously human, a black-haired young man, perhaps eighteen years old. He was the most normal of the group. Next to him lay a blue-skinned humanoid alien woman. Instead of hair, she sported two shoulder length tentacles that sprouted from the back of her head. Across from the female sprawled the two strangest of the group, both more than two meters tall. One was vaguely saurian, brownish skin contrasting with the metallic plates it had plastered to its body. The other was similarly built, with reverse jointed legs covered in some form of armor. It had scaly gray skin, and its wide head seemed to possess no mouth. The final figure was a colossus of green and gunmetal, as tall as the larger aliens. It's opaque golden face plate gave no sign of it was machine, man, or alien.

O'Brien, noting the commander's presence, straightened up and approached him.

"What happened?" Riker asked bewilderedly, still staring at the presumably unconscious forms. The chief shook his head. He was obviously as confused as Riker. "I don't know sir. I had engaged the transporter beam and there was an energy surge. I almost lost the signal when you put up the shields, but I got 'em through," O'Brien said, and then looked back at the pad. The security team as well as a few of the engineering staff was now clustered around the pad. A few of the officers had checked the pulses of the human and blue-skinned alien. They were alive, but their pulses were erratic. Someone called for Doctor Crusher. No one even got close to the other three. O'Brien looked back at Riker, giving a small shrug. "Of course, I don't know who they are or how they got in the transporter beam."

When Doctor Crusher arrived, she set about moving the beings on the pad to the med lab. They were able to transport four of them, but the fifth, the armored one, had to be moved via hoverlift. Something about its armor disrupted the transport beam. O'Brien wasn't even sure how he'd been stable enough to enter the beam in the first place. When all of them were safely in the med bay, Beverly Crusher set about figuring out who or what they were.

Nurse Onigawa ran a medical tricorder over the blue female, who was lying, still unconscious on one of the med lab's beds. "Her physiology is similar to a humans; warm-blooded, spinal column, nervous system all very similar. Looks like she just needs some time to wake up."

Dr. Crusher was looking over the saurian in the metal armor. "Hmm, wish this one was that simple." She flipped the tricorder she was holding shut in exasperation. "I have no point of reference for this one's nervous system. Same with the other too." She gestured to the gray-scaled alien on a nearby table. In both cases, Beverly had opted to leave their armor on. She had no idea what purpose it served in either case. It could be life support for all she knew. The fully armored one was even more difficult. The ships sensors had been able to detect a life sign in the midst of the metal and circuitry, but some kind of energy field was surrounding it, and the Doctor didn't want to try and cut through it unless absolutely necessary.

She sighed and placed the scanner on an adjoining table. Well, I guess there's nothing for it but monitor their life signs and wait for one to wake up. I can't even figure out why he's unconscious." She looked over the black-hair human in mild exasperation. He was perfectly healthy as far as she could tell. There was no indicator of who he was on him, and he was only carrying a small, metal tube. The item, along with the other equipment found on his companions, had been brought down to engineering for analysis. "No molecular breakdown, no concussion, no unidentifiable chemicals in his blood stream. As far as I can tell, he's just asleep."

Beverly walked over to the med bay replicator and stated "Tea, hot."

The alcove hummed for a moment, and in a flash of light, a cup of steaming liquid appeared. The doctor sipped the beverage, looked at her patients again in a mixture of puzzlement and exasperation, and then headed for her office. "I'll be logging their progress. Keep me informed if there are any changes," she called to nurse Onigawa. The officer responded in the affirmative and went back to scanning the female.

Down in Main Engineering, the main conference table was strewn with items found on the Enterprise's "guests." Geordi Laforge entered the chamber, passing the pair of yellow-garbed security officers who were flanking the door. Ever since the transporter mishap, Worf had upped security all over the ship, especially around med bay and the engineering section. Geordi walked up to Data, who was examining a device found the saurian being, looked up. "Have you figured out what it is?" Geordi asked, taking the object from Data's hands. It was large, almost to big for Geordi to hold in one hand. A smooth, bluish-green covering encased the object, shaped like an elongated, angular U.

"I believe it is a weapon, directed plasma judging by the discharge mechanism," Data stated evenly. Geordi hefted it into a firing position, both hands supporting its opalescent form. "I've never seen anything like it. Did the computer come up with anything?" Data moved to a consul inset into the table. "There is no record in the computer of such a device ever being employed by a race encountered by the federation." Geordi placed the weapon back on the table and picked one of the metallic tubes that had been found on the human and the blue alien. He examined it closely, his visor picking up faint emission from within it. Locating what looked like an emitter on one end, he pointed it towards the ceiling and pressed a panel on the side. A beam of blue energy erupted from the end, but instead of burning into the ceiling plate, it remained still, a spike of energy sprouting from the metal handle. Data approached with a tricorder and scanned the beam. "It seems to be hyper concentrated light energy. However, the energy is folding back on its self rather than dissipating." Geordi averted his gaze, the blade beginning to his light-sensitive visor. "Perhaps it's a cutting tool. A beam like this ought to be able to slice through solid duranium," he said.

The other items on the table included the second beam-projecting device, a small communications unit, a large deadly looking implement covered in purple spikes, and the extensive armament found on the green-armored being. Two projectile weapons, several explosive devices, some Data had determined were primitive petrochemical ignition devices, and a deadly looking ten centimeter long serrated knife.

As Data and Geordi were trying to determine what material the plasma weapon was made out of, the Captain's voice came over the ship's comm. "Have you been able to identify any of the equipment yet engineering?" Geordi hit his insignia, "Well sir, we've been able to determine that whoever they are, they were carrying a lot weaponry. However, none of the devices are noted in the ships computer. But were still analyzing them sir." The response came back a moment later. "Keep at it Mr. Laforge. Have a report ready for sixteen hundred hours." Geordi looked at the table of strange and varied items and sighed. Give him a warp core failure any day. "We'll have a report ready sir."

Back on the bridge, captain Picard sat, waiting. After the incident near the nebula, the Enterprise had withdrawn to the outskirts of the Orion Gammalon system and was awaiting instructions from Starfleet Command. Picard had sent a report detailing the nebula's unexpected collapse and what little they new of their "guests," but due to Orion Gammalon's proximity to several neutron stars and other disruptive phenomena, it would take several hours for the message to wend its way through the Starfleet communications network. In the meantime, all the captain could do was monitor the area where the metrion cloud had once been.

Evidently, the point where the formation had imploded had become choked with so much radiation that it was impossible for the pick up any accurate readings of the area, or for the Enterprise to approach safely within accurate imaging range for that matter.

Growing increasingly antsy, he gave bridge control over to Riker and retired to his ready room. Sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea, the captain decided to pass the time with some music. "Computer, Beethoven's Fifth symphony in E major." As the melody filled the room, the captain leaned back to reflect. The current situation was unsettling. Even though Captain Picard had more experience in first contact situations than any other officer in the fleet, they usually involved meetings in space or careful and well-planned contact on worlds nearing warp drive capability. This time was different. He had five sentient beings unconscious in his med lab, and at least three of them were completely different, unknown species. Such a predicament would make any commanding officer uncomfortable. What made it worse, neither he nor anyone else in his crew knew how are why they had arrived on his ship.

The captain's thoughts were interrupted by the ping of the comm. "Captain, one of the guests is coming around," Riker said, the element of excitement audible in his voice. "On my way Number One." The captain shut off the music and moved toward the door. Now they might be getting somewhere.

Chapter Three

There it was again. That metal disk. Just floating there, waiting for John to reach out and grab it, but as he did, he felt a sinking feeling, and the disc ballooned into a massive ring. The Halo. He was falling towards it, no time to react…

Spartan-117, code name Master Chief woke with a start, and quickly wished he hadn't. His head felt cold and numb, like it was filled with ice. Maybe he was waking up from cryosleep. The Chief tried to remember where he was. Ah, yes, the last thing he remembered was being in the clutches of that monstrous alien thing, the Gravemind it called itself. He could remember being saved from a Covenant bombardment by the twisted creature, then being tossed and turned as it lectured him about the flood, the Covenant, and the entire universe. There was more, but he couldn't clear his cloudy mind enough to think of it. Finally, the soldier regained enough of his wits to try and get up, but something was holding him down. He checked the heads-up displays that typically populated the interior of his helmet, but they were gone. All he could see was a bright light a white ceiling directly above him.

"Cortana," he mumbled, remembering how to talk. "Cortana, what's our situation?" For a moment nothing happened, and then a sharp pain split his cranium. The pulse of discomfort lingered for a moment, and then faded, leaving only a cool presence in his brain. The A.I.'s link with his mind. All of a sudden, his helmet HUD's started coming back online, comm line, health monitor, shield status all appearing before his eye's all showing acceptable readings. All accept the motion tracker, which was swarming with targets. The Spartan tried to rise again, but he was still restrained. Then Cortana's voice came over his helmet's internal speaker. "That was…unusual." The feminine voice sounded bewildered, more so than Master Chief had ever heard the construct.

"What happened Cortana?" Master Chief asked again, growing more agitated as he struggled against what ever was holding him down. "The last thing that I registered was that flood creature telling you that you had to retrieve the index. I thought he was sending us to a Covenant ship," she replied and then paused, evidently analyzing the surroundings. "But this definitely not a covenant ship. I'm picking up thermal readings typical of _humans _all around us." That was very unexpected. Why would the flood send them back into human hands? "Are we onboard Keyes's ship?" the Chief asked, confused. Cortana responded, "I'm not sure, my remote interface ability seems to be down right now… wait, there's a human approaching our position." A moment later, a black haired woman came into view, running some device the Chief couldn't identify over his helmet.

"Why am I being restrained?" the Spartan asked, keying his external comm on with a thought. The woman jumped back, startled, dropping her device. Then he heard her calling someone and another woman came forward, her face filling his screen. "Can you hear me?" she asked with enthusiasm. An unusual question, why wouldn't he be able to hear her? His status display told him he was not injured. "Spartan 117 reporting ma'am. I can hear you fine," he responded in a crisp, formal tone. The woman seemed taken back with the clarity of his answer. "Why am I being restrained?" he pushed, again trying to rise. The woman responded, fidgeting with her red hair, "I didn't know why or how you were unconscious, so the restraining field was put in place in case you started to spasm." If he had really been out of it for them to move him to an operating table, why hadn't they removed his armor? A quick check of his shield status display gave him his answer, for some reason, it had been locked on. He shut off the invisible screen and felt himself slump down into the table a centimeter. "My am uninjured ma'am. If you would disable the holding mechanism, Cortana and I need to make a report to the commander." The woman looked confused, "You know where you are?"

"This is the UNSC frigate under the command of Miranda Keyes?" this was the only reasonable explanation; no other human craft had jumped into slipspace perusing the Prophet of Regret's ship, and they were nowhere near UNSC space. The redheaded woman grew even more confused. "Well, no this is…" she paused looking over her shoulder. "The captain had better explain it to you." The figure backed out the Chief's range of vision and he felt his arms and legs suddenly free. The Spartan rose and assessed the room he was in. "This is definitely not any UNSC ship I've ever been on," Cortana commented, still on internal speaker. Master Chief had to agree with her. Rather than the sharp angles, metal walls and fixtures and military notations that made up the interior of human naval craft, this room looked like a waiting area a spa resort. The walls and ceilings were gently curved, colored in soft shades of white, blue and tan. Above the carpeted floor were several beds, some of them occupied.

Stranger even than the surroundings were the men and woman who stood around Master Chief. Instead of the green fatigues of the marines or the drab, formal uniforms of fleet officers, these humans wore comfortable-looking black pants and vibrantly colored shirts ranging form red to yellow. One of them, a tall, bald man wearing a red tunic stepped forward and offered his hand with a small smile. "I am captain Jean-Luc Picard of the United Fedoration of Planets. Welcome aboard the Enterprise." Protocol forgotten, the Chief stared at the man. He had never heard of such an organization. Was this a delusion, a covenant trick? In the back his mind, he could hear Cortana mumble, "Looks like were not in Kansas anymore."

"… And when I reactivated, the Master Chief and I were in your medical facility." Cortana's shimmering female representation spoke from the main viewer in the Enterprise's command staff briefing room, which possessed no holographic projector. Master Chief was sitting at the conference table, listening to Cortana's abridged dissertation on UNSC history and how she had found herself aboard the Enterprise. For security reasons, she had skimped on most of the details, but Cortana had decided to at least explain to their impromptu hosts who she and the Spartan where. After all, they had not seemed to be hostile, but the Chief was still on edge, ready to retrieve Cortana's transfer matrix from the Enterprise's computer and defend himself at a moments notice. The introduction served another purpose as well; Cortana was covertly attempting to enter the ships mainframe and ascertain if the humans were being deceptive or planning to detain them. So far, she had come up negative.

The bridge crew watched the display in rapt fascination. Encounters with extra-dimensional beings were incredibly rare, even if most of the occurrences in Starfleet's history had involved the Enterprise, so the situation had to be treated with the utmost care and attention. The artificial intelligence known as Cortana, which Data had tentatively analyzed as being far more advanced than himself, had over the last hour passed on an account of humanity being pushed to the edge of extinction by a conglomeration of fanatically religious alien species known as the Covenant. She had given them a brief description of the Spartans, super warriors who were the last line of defense for the human race, one of which was seated at the table. Finally, the A.I. had explained how the soldier, known as Master Chief, had been sent to capture or assassinate the alien leadership, and had nearly died in the process. The Chief, with her in his armor, had been saved by a hideous creature of a parasitic species Cortana called the Flood and had been conscripted by it to stop the Covenant from inadvertently unleashing a device that would eradicate all life in the galaxy, including itself. She seemed to either not know how they had arrived onboard the Enterprise or was withholding information.

When Cortana had finished, captain Picard, who was seated at the opposite end of the room, spoke up, "Fascinating. You said that this creature, this "Gravemind" teleported you to stop the Covenant from activating this super weapon?" It all sounded far-fetched, but the Captain had encountered far stranger. The representation of Cortana nodded. "Yes, but I don't know why he would send us here. Perhaps our arrival here was a simple accident." Picard frowned, thinking. If these two knew anything about the nebula's collapse, they were withholding it. He would just have to see if anyone of the other beings still motionless in the med bay could divulge any answers.

Doctor Crusher, who was seated near Master Chief, addressed Cortana, "Did you recognize any of the others in the med lab before you left?" Beverly was perplexed by the status of her other patients, none of whom had so much as twitched since their arrival. "One of them is an Elite. The same one that was held with me by the Gravemind." Master Chief had not spoken very much, preferring to let Cortana handle the introductions, so his measured, low voice was somewhat startling.

"Elites?" Riker questioned. The Chief still found it hard to talk to people who had never heard of the Covenant, and was still using code words and mannerisms that would be meaningless to the humans of this ship. Cortana explained, "Elites are the highest warrior class among the Covenant. They are brutal, efficient, and have a religious fervor to the point of insanity." Worf let out a small growl, "I shall increase Security in Med Bay." The Chief smiled humorlessly behind his mask. "Yes. Yes, you should."

After Picard gave his own brief history, of the Fedoration and his ship. It seemed the human's in it had had fairly easy time, with no major wars for years and a fairy stable political environment. There only potential enemies, the Cardassians and Romulans, were docile compared to the genocidal Covenant. After this briefing, Captain Picard rose. "Well, we have all had a long day. I have had quarters prepared for you, and someone will come by and brief you on its facilities. We can continue this tomorrow, when hopefully more of the others have awakened." Master Chief graciously accepted his offer, and after picking up Cortana's memory cube, departed the room. In spite of the fact that he did not know the true motives of his hosts, there was little he could do escorted by armed guards on an unknown starship without any hope of back up. The best course of action was to go with the flow and be ready for action if it was called for. As his old instructor Sergeant Menedez had put it, "Don't rock the boat. But if you have to rock the boat, make sure it sinks."

As the green-armored soldier walked away down the hall flanked by security officers, Picard turned back to his crew, "Any thoughts?" Deanna Troi, the ship's half Betazoid counselor spoke up, "I couldn't sense any deception from the soldier. I believe he is as confused about the situation as we are." All throughout the conference, Deanna had remained silent, focusing her empathic senses on Master Chief, but she had been unable to uncover anything more than a faint feeling of curiosity. Worf grumbled, "I would still like to keep the ship at a guarded alert level. Until we know more about them, they are still a threat to security." The captain nodded. "Very well. All we can do now is wait for the others to recover." He turned to Riker. "Number one, keep the ship on its standard schedule. We don't want any more rumors spreading through than are already out there. And all of you should get some rest. I would imagine tomorrow will be quiet busy."

Chapter Four

As Master Chief walked down the smooth, brightly light hallway, he noted the reactions of officers that he passed in interest. He expected that they would shrink against walls or dodge into doorways in an attempt to avoid him. Not that he wanted to be treated with fear, but he had come to expect it. Back amongst UNSC officers and even marines, even though he was a hero and had the admiration and respect of virtually every human in existence, those who actually encountered him in person were often unnerved or even downright scared by his armored alien appearance. This reaction was in fact shared by many of the people he passed, but not all of them. Some moved aside slowly, looking at his green armor with more fascination than animosity. A few barely even noticed the armor clad figure, pushing aside just enough to get by him and the flanking escorts. The Chief found the possibility that they were just plain braver than the men and woman he served with was farfetched. More likely, they were simply much more accustomed to seeing the unknown and it not trying to cave-in their faces with a plasma blast. Wistfully, he wondered what life would be like if the Covenant had offered an olive branch to humanity at their first contact, rather than summarily glassing the planet Harvest, the act of genocide that served as the begging to the decades-long war. But such flights of fancy were for philosophers and authors, and Master Chief was a neither. He was a soldier, born and bred.

After a short trip down a lift, his escorts halted, flanking a tan door. One, a broad shouldered man with thin, black hair gestured to it. "Your quarters sir." The Chief approached and the door slid open, revealing yet another surprise. The room was very spacious, upholstered with warm fabrics and adorned with smooth, stylized furniture. A large bank of windows along one side of the chamber revealed a panoramic view of the starfield outside. "These look like an admiral's quarters. You boys shouldn't have," Cortana drawled over the external comm. If the guide was alarmed by the new voice emanating from the Chief's helmet, he didn't show it. "These are regular guest's quarters," he said and then turned to a small alcove on the wall. "This is a food replicator. Just tell it what you want and it will make it for you." He gestured across the room, "Down the hall is the bathroom. If you need anything else, Officer Keegee and myself will be outside this door. Goodnight." The Spartan gave a nod of recognition and the man departed, the door closing behind him. Walking over to a low table, the Chief removed his helmet and placed it on the table. Then he stopped to consider. It would be difficult to rest still incased in his combat armor, but removing it would seriously hamper any defensive efforts he might have to implement if the situation turned bad. Then again, if they really wanted him captured or dead, unarmed and outnumbered, he really wasn't going to get much farther with his armor than without it. He was brave, but not stupid.

With this in mind, he began stripping of the armored plating and the form-fitting body gel that held it together. As he was doing this, Cortana spoke up. "So your going to just leave me in here?" The Chief paused, half undressed and placed Cortana's core cube on a computer terminal. A moment later, she was looking at him from behind a nearby display screen. He returned to stripping. "What do you make of the situation?" he asked the shimmering figure. "I really couldn't say. These people seem to be honest enough, but I'd rather check for myself," she said.

Master Chief cocked an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?" Cortana grinned slyly. "Nothing serious. I had a look over their ship's A.I. while we were in the conference room. It's fairly advanced, but nothing I cant bypass. I just want to see if their records corroborate the story the captain gave us." Master Chief was somewhat uneasy with the idea, but knew better than to argue with Cortana. "Just be careful. I'm not exactly in a position to blast us a way out of her if it gets to hot." Cortana gave a small sniff, "I'm always careful." With that, the image disappeared.

The Chief chuckled softly and finished laying out the pieces of his armor by the low bed. He really liked that construct, her personality quips and all. After a moment of analyzing the strange shower configuration, he stepped in. The warm water felt good, it had been days since his last one. After drying off, he eyed the replicator alcove dubiously. Instead, he reached for a ration pack in a compartment of his armor. He was quite ready to trust these people with his food. After a quick meal, the weary Spartan flopped onto the low bed. He sank into the soft material, and was deep asleep even before his eyelids fully shut.

Cortana flowed through the Enterprise's internal network of relays and electronic grids, happy to once again have a little space to move around. The ship's internal systems were quite different from those of the Pillar of Autumn or any other UNSC vessel she had occupied, but the construct adapted quickly. After going over the ins and outs of the network, she set to work. Careful to skirt the ship's omnipresent computer mind, which was highly intelligent, but not built to repel a determined trespasser, she began to quickly examine the ships layout and specs. The USS Enterprise NCC-1701-D was apparently a cross between a science vessel and warship, flagship of the Federation's fleet. It carried a complement of 1,012 engineers, scientists, officers, and to Cortana's surprise, their families. No UNSC ship would carry civilians unnecessarily into potentially dangerous situations. Then again, the ship did seem to be built more for exploration than war.

In place of a slipstream drive, faster than light mode of travel of both humans and Covenant, the ship was propelled by something called warp drive. Cortana could delve deeper into the propulsion specs without risking discovery, but she made a mental note to return. The starship was equipped with a variety of proton and energy based weapon emplacements that were very different from both UNSC and Covenant technology. The ship also carried a high-powered energy shield array and a collection of matter-energy transference modules that Picard had called "Transporters." Cortana was about to analyze the physics behind the fantastical devices when she detected a high priority comm signal in the ship's system.

Intrigued, she tailed the signal to its source, the med bay. Tapping into a wall panel, she looked into the hospital room. In the chamber several people, medical staff by the look of their clothing, were clustered around a bed platform, blocking it from view. Frowning, Cortana moved through the system to the life support unit for the platform. It seemed that one of the aliens that she could not identify was coming around, the blue skinned humanoid. As the female's heart rate increased, Cortana switched to an overhead monitor to watch.

"Turn off the restraining field," Beverly Crusher ordered a nurse. She, along with several orderlies, was helping the alien woman up. Clutching here head, the female slowly sat up on the bed. The doctor got closer, "Are you all right?" The alien's head tails began to swing back and forth slightly and she opened her eyes. "Hsta ginoa cammeya la?" The medical staff looked at her perplexed. Dr. Crusher picked up a tricorder and ran it around the woman's head. "No sign of brain damage or concussion, at least as far as I can tell. What did you say?" The blue skinned woman looked into her eyes, also perplexed. She then spoke again in the strange, rhythmic language. Dr. Crusher sighed. "I guess you all couldn't be as easy as the last one." She then looked up a the ceiling, "Computer, begin running a universal translator circuit through the med lab." The computer's calm voice responded in the affirmative and Beverly turned back to her patient.

"Say something again please," she asked. Although she knew the woman couldn't understand her, she had to make her speak again. The woman cocked her head in confusion and began to speak again. The nonsensical words spilled over Beverly, but she knew that it was only matter of time until the translator began to pick up the language. She was about to encourage the woman to speak more when an aide spoke up from behind her. "Ma'am, one of the others is waking up." Beverly gestured for one of the orderlies to continue speaking with the woman, and then moved over to the patient the other nurse had indicated. It was the large saurian looking being and he was beginning to move his head from side to side, letting out a low growl. She moved to where its head lay. "Can you hear me?" Instead of responding, the being glanced at her and began to struggle under his restraining barrier. "Its all right, I'm going to release your confinement field. Hold on," she said as she worked at the controls. Alerted by the alien's activity, the two security officers Worf had left to guard the med bay began to slowly draw their phasers.

With a faint whooshing sound, the field dropped, and with near lightning speed, the contained creature coiled up on its back and leapt off the table. This unexpected action caused Beverly and several aides to stumble back in surprise. The creature, now on its haunches in a corner swiftly assessed the room. Then its segmented jaw opened and let forth a low voice. "Humans." Beverly put her hands forward in a sign of goodwill and slowly approached, "We mean you no harm. We were just making sure you had suffered no serious injuries." The silver armored alien looked at her carefully and then continued to survey the room. Behind the doctor, the security officers had moved the bewildered staff farther to one side of the chamber and had their weapons pointed at the alien. One of the officers accidentally jabbed his weapon in a threatening motion. Startled by this perceived threat, the saurian swiftly reached for a weapon at his side, and realizing that there were none there, lunged forward with blinding speed. Beverly braced herself for the attack, but the huge beast brushed past her, instead targeting the officer that him. Before anyone could fire a weapon, the armed man was sprawled on the floor, cradling a shattered arm.

Before the alien could continue his attack though, he too found himself skittering along the floor, barley able to keep his balance. For a moment, Beverly thought that he had been hit by a phaser blast, but then the alien recoiled again, but nothing had hit him. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the blue skin with her arm outstretched, focusing intently on the towering assailant. The beast growled and attempted to move again, but three beams of red light suddenly struck it. The uninjured security officer, along with two gaurds who had been posted outside the door were pouring phaser fire upon the beast. The beams did not strike their target however, and instead were met by a shimmering, slivery barrier that engulfed the alien, much like the one Master Chief had used. Behind the protective field, the alien began to advance upon the increasingly desperate officers. One of the men ordered an increase in firepower, and the glowing projections became brighter, but the armored creature pushed on.

The alien woman, seeing the fire line failing, launched her self at the aggressor with startling speed. She jammed a foot into the aliens back, and the surprise attack sent the alien tumbling forward. As he fell, the shimmering shield finally petered out and red beams began make contact. Amazingly, the alien was able regain his footing and stumble forward a few more steps before succumbing to the incoming phaser fire and falling to the floor. After the warrior fell, everyone in the room stood motionless for a moment, casting of the shock of the rapid battle.

After she had regained some composure, Beverly helped a security officer lift his wounded comrade onto a medical platform. Satisfied that he had sustained nothing more than a broken arm, she left him in the care of a nurse and turned to the collapsed alien, now surround by the weary guards. A quick look at her tricorder and the creature's heaving chest told her it was alive, if unconscious. After she helped the men move it to a table and restrain it, she turned to the blue woman, who was sitting again on her bed-table, plainly exhausted. Judging by what it looked like she had done to help subdue the creature, there was more to her than met the eye.

Cortana had witnessed the entire incident from the safety of her ceiling display, and had watched with considerable interest. That was an Elite all right, and a skillful one at that. She considered awakening the Chief and alerting him that the Covenant soldier had come around, but thought better of it. It seemed the crew had adequately subdued the creature. Cortana's attention was now focused on the other conscious alien, the blue female that seemed to possess some kind of telekinetic ability. This was yet another seemingly impossible occurrence that she would have to document and analyze. This day kept getting stranger and stranger.

Chapter Five

Aayla Secura sat in a small, comfortably furnished room, watching the woman across from her with interest. Since awakening and dealing with the rampaging creature of a species she couldn't identify, she had moved form one room to another, shunted by various humans and humanoids speaking in a tongue that definitely was not any variation of Aruebesh, galactic basic, she had ever heard. Most other people would have responded negatively to such an awkward situation, but Aayla could sense no hostility, so she decide to just go with the flow until she found a protocol droid or someone she knew.

Admittedly, she was confused to how she had gotten where she was. The last thing Aayla could remember was catching some sleep on a republic cruiser that was ferrying her clone strike group to the embattled planet Dussovan 2 to bolster its defenses. Then she had come around on a strange looking ship with a headache and minus her lightsaber. Fortunately, through some pantomiming, Aayla had been able to get her weapon back from her hosts. She patted the metal tube that was slung on her belt, thankful that at least something of what she knew had found its way hear with her, wherever here was.

The woman she was sitting across from was young, perhaps only a few years older than herself, dressed in a pastel body suit and draped in curly, black hair. She had been speaking to her for the last couple of minutes, and judging by her hand movements, she wanted Aayla to respond. She complied, even though she new they wouldn't be able to understand one another. The Twi'lek gestured to herself, "Aayla Secura." She pointed to the woman. "Deanna Troi," the woman replied, seemingly understanding what she was getting at. Then the woman picked something of a nearby table and held it out to her. Aayla took the object, a pocket sized chrome box, and looked at it with interest. Deanna then gesticulated with a speaking gesture. Perhaps the box was a translator. Aayla began to speak into it, but its only response was a low beep. Deanna motioned for her to continue.

"What is this place? How did I get here?" the jedi knight asked, and the translator began to process the words.

This continued for over an hour, and both women were becoming quite bored, not to mention exasperated. Deanna had sunk deep into the comfortable chair she was seated upon, her eyes half lidded. Then suddenly, she started hearing words she could understand. "What did you just say," she asked leaning forward. Evidently, Aayla had understood too. "I asking if this thing had done anything yet," She smiled looking down at the device. "I guess it has."

"Well, that's a relief. Perhaps we can get somewhere now." Deanna replied, placing her hands across her lap. "Maybe we should start with you telling me were we are," Aayla suggested, sinking back into her chair.

Captain Picard sat in his ready room, facing down an admiral. Well technically they were about a thousand light-years apart, but the effect was the same. "Have you been able to communicate with any of your "Guests" yet captain," asked Admiral Derado coolly, looking Picard straight in the eyes. Unlike most of the other admirals in Starfleet, Picard didn't know Sampson Derado personally, and they had only met once at a diplomatic reception on Betazed, but the man's reputation was well known. Derado was secretive, nasty, and unsocial, especially to those of lower rank. He was also well known for having his hands in all variety of classified and shadowy projects that were the domain of a branch of Starfleet intelligence and development known only as Section Seven. Not exactly whom Picard would have chosen to speak too, but at a month's journey from Earth, his options were limited.

"Yes admiral, in fact three…well four of them have regained consciousness and are being briefed of their situation and questioned," Picard answered, putting on his most diplomatic face. "I have sent you all information we know in my report." The admiral raised an eyebrow. "Now, now Picard, you're not trying to get rid of me so soon, are you?" This was actually precisely what Picard was trying to do, but he didn't want it to be so obvious. However, before he could apologize, the image of Derado waved it off. "No, no, I know my reputation amongst the fleet. Your apprehension is understandable, but I am sure completely unfounded." With this, the admiral smiled. Picard was no telepath, but he could sense that the thin smile was a disguise, hiding something out of place, perhaps even dangerous.

"Anyway Picard, your orders are to remain at your current coordinates and monitor the nebula's collapse point. We wouldn't want to lose a second of sensor data on such a unique phenomenon. I will be diverting a science vessel to your position so you can continue your patrol assignment. The ship ought to make contact in a week or so."

The captain nodded. This was the response he expected, "Very well, admiral. And I will transmit any developments to you immediately," Picard said, trying to smile. "Good, good. I look forward to speaking to you again captain. Until then, Derado out." The view screen blinked to the Starfleet insignia and then shut off. Picard rose and paced unto the bridge. There was something wrong, something he couldn't place. Then again, their had always been motives and methods of the admiralty that he didn't understand. And admiral Derado had given him no actual reason to suspect anything was amiss. Picard pushed the notion to the back of his head. He wouldn't let unfounded suspicions cloud his judgment, at least as long as they remained unfounded.

Sampson Derado turned of the comm unit and leaned back in his chair. It was only a matter of time until another of these nebulae had collapsed. Such occurrences were not as rare as he had he had tried to make Picard think. In fact, he had been aboard the ship, performing a customary inspection of its command crew, which had been the first to discover these phenomena. The chain of events had been very similar, the collapse, the botched rescue of a survey satellite, a transporter mishap. Of course, that time only one being had come through, but one had been enough. Derado couldn't remember much off what happened immediately afterwards, but he and the visitor had departed the ship, before the tragic accident. A proton torpedo went off in one of the bays, triggering a catastrophic chain reaction. All hands went down with the ship, as did all of the ships sensor data and its logs. A real shame Derado mused, a real shame.

From behind him, a soft, almost silky voice spoke. "Good news I hope admiral?" Derado straightened up immediately, a simile drifting across his face. "Yes mistress, the Enterprise recovered five of them." His hands played across the computer interface, bringing up the captains report. "Let me see them," the voice again came, it's source cloaked in the deep shadows that filled Derado's dimly light office. The man typed in a few more commands, revealing pictures of each being, visitors Derado thought of them. Issuing form the darkness came a humanoid form, tall and sinister. Still only a vague silhouette, it peered at the screen from over the admiral's shoulders. Its eyes stopped over each one, drinking their image in. Then it came to the last picture, the gray skinned being with reverse jointed legs. A small chuckle emanated from its mouth, a sound both enchanting and terrifying. "Yes. These are the ones I wish." The shadow looked down at Derado. "I trust you have a ship nearby that can deliver them. One you can…count on." The admiral swiftly brought up a map of Fedoration space and highlighted a ship. "The Columbus has served me well in the past. And it is less than a week from the Enterprise." He looked up into the shadowy face expectantly. "Excellent. Send it at once, and retrieve these beings at all costs," the voice came, a dark excitement tingeing it. "Of course Mistress, at once," Derado said, turned back to the screen, eager to make the necessary orders. As he was doing so, a hand came from the darkness, a singe slender finger outstretched. It played across the Admiral's cheek, moving form temple down towards his throat. He sank into his chair, a wave of pleasure overtaking him. Then the hand withdrew again into the blackness. As the figure dropped from sight, the voice emanated forth again. "You have done well Admiral. Very well indeed." Then it was gone, leaving just a little man in his chair bathed in sweat, yearning for the touch to return but not knowing exactly why.

Chapter Six

Master Chief awoke refreshed and relaxed, at least as much as he could be in unknown territory under a potentially hostile situation. The fact that he had survived the night without coming under attack or awoken an interrogation chamber served to assuage some of his apprehension about the Enterprise, but he was as ever on guard. As the Spartan ate and began replacing his armor, Cortana regaled him with her findings of the night before. He listened with interest to the constructs description of the ship and its complement; it would be difficult to escape if the captain decided he had worn out his welcome, but from the sound of it, Cortana believed they didn't have any hostile intent. Then came Cortana's description of the scuffle in the med bay. "It took only three of them to bring down a veteran Elite," the Chief said, impressed. He'd seen an enraged Elite plow through groups of marines twice that number. "Well, they were using some kind of energy weapon, a phaser they call it, and the Elite was unarmed," Cortana noted. "Besides, they had help from one of the others who arrived with us. She appeared to be telekinetic." The Spartan looked up in surprise. He heard of people who could allegedly move thing with their minds, but he had always dismissed such tales. Evidently, things worked differently in other dimensions.

Master Chief placed his helmet back on his head and the warm sensation of control that came with the enhanced armor flowed back. Then he replaced Cortana in her socket in the green helmet, and a mild burst of pain flowed by a cool sensation headed her return to his mind. Then the cyborg headed for the door, intent on interrogating the Elite before the captain wanted to call another meeting. The Covenant soldier might know why the Gravemind might have sent them to the Enterprise, if that was indeed what had happened. When the door slid open, he was surprised to see Commander Data, the android who had been among the bridge crew the previous evening, standing in the hallway. The Chief greeted him formally and gave a salute. Even if these were not the officers he was used to serving with, they were officer non the less, and the Chief had decided that showing them the appropriate respect would be the easiest thing to do. If the commander was taken aback by this behavior, didn't let it show. "Good morning Master Chief. I trust the provide quarters were adequate," Data said, a rouge facsimile of a smile on his face. "Quite adequate sir," the Chief responded crisply. "Does Captain Picard wish to speak with Cortana and I now?"

"Not yet actually. He suggested that you look around the Enterprise in the intervening period. Is there any area you would particularly like to see?" Data asked. "I would actually like to speak with the Covenant Elite if it is possible sir," Master Chief replied. Data nodded, "Of course. He is being held in the brig for his own safety. I can escort you there." Data gestured to the guards flanking the Chief's door. "I hope you don't mind if the security personnel accompanies us. Lieutenant Commander Worf has insisted that you, along with the other guest remain under some guard, at least for a while longer." The Chief nodded that it was fine. A prudent security measure he thought. The small group set off down the hall and stepped into a turbolift. Data gave the computer the level on which the brig was located and the lift whirred to life. In the intervening silence, the Chief spoke up. "With all due respect sir, why would the Captain send one of his senior officers to show me around the ship? I'm sure you have more important duties to attend to. " Data didn't miss a beat. "The Captain didn't specify which officer should escort you, and since the nebula's collapse point has remained in a fixed state of sensor disruption for fourteen hours, I decided to take the duty upon myself." He looked inquisitively at the Chief's helmet. "Am I correct in assuming that the Artificial Intelligence Cortana resides in your armor?" The Commander was a tech head, that explained it. Not surprising considering that Data was in machine himself. Before, the Spartan could respond, Cortana's female voice came over the helmet speaker. "At your service Commander." If speaking to two sentients who occupied the same space bothered Data, he didn't show it, as the entire rest of the trip was occupied by the two machines discussing their technical specifications with one another.

Finally, Data motioned to a large hatch, and the group stepped inside. Compared with the rest of the ship was barren and drab, populated by a lone guard who was working at a security station. Large, open cells lined the left wall, three of them, only one of which was inhabited. Behind a blue sheen of light, similar to a Covenant prison field the Chief supposed, paced the Elite. As he approached, the Spartan noted the Elite had been stripped of all but the barest of armor, a state he had never seen one of the aliens in before. Cortana spoke to Data, "Have you informed it of its location or interrogated it yet?" Data responded, "No. It came around only a few minutes ago." Cortana switched to the helmet speaker. " Looks like its up to you then Chief."

"Oh joy."

As the Spartan approached the cell, the warrior looked up. "I knew you would be here Demon. Have you come to dishonor me one last time?" the Covenant growled in a low and menacing speech, but was surprisingly understandable. Master Chief put out his hands disarmingly. "Actually, I have no idea where we are or how we got here. I was hoping you had some idea." The Elite eyed the Fedoration officers suspiciously. "You would have me believe that they are not affiliated with you." He let out a disbelieving grunt. "Besides, even if I did accept your story, why would I divulge any information or cooperate with the likes of you?" The Chief moved closer to the soldier, trying to remain calm. Dealing with someone who considered your entire species vermin, as the Covenant generally did, could be difficult. "Look, we both want to get back to that Halo, or your fleet, or wherever that Flood thing was sending us. I don't want to see the galaxy flash-fried, and I'm guessing that you don't either, so can you put aside your religious fervor or whatever it is that drives you long enough to get back to our own space and stop that weapon from activating. Then I'll be perfectly willing meet whatever grievance you have against me." The Elite was taken aback by the tenacity of the human's latest speech. Secretly, he had come to admire the bravery of the primates over the course of the long war, and even in his heart of hearts begun to question why the Prophets, leaders of the Covenant, had ordered the eradication of their race.

As he looked at the armored human, some of his hostility began to drain. It was true that this creature had humiliated him at the battle of the first Halo, and lead to his being branded as a heretic, but those actions had also lead to the Elite's position as the Arbiter, arm of the Prophets. Perhaps by helping this human, the Prophets and his gods would be better served, perhaps this was his destiny. At the very least, he needed to get back into the battle, and this human would help him do so.

After a long silence, the Elite nodded. "Very well. You may call me the Arbiter." Then he looked over the Chief's shoulder. "You were going to tell me about them?"

The rest of that day on the Enterprise was taken up by the guest acclimating themselves to their hopefully temporary surroundings. Each was briefed by the Captain, given quarters, and allowed access to all none essential parts of the ship, as long as an escort accompanied them. Worf still was weary of the guests, and insisted that the extra security stay in place. Meanwhile, the Captain could do nothing save wait for the promised science ship and have the crew continue scanning the point where the nebula had been. The radiation was still far too intense to get any real readings, but it at least gave the crew something to do.

After getting some rest, Aayla Secura spent most of her time in sickbay, staying out of the way and observing the two who had yet to recover. She watched over in particular the human. She had never seen him before, but she could feel the force flowing within him. The jedi was anxious to speak again with another Force user. For some reason, the Force felt distant and abstract, and although he was obviously not a master who could alleviate her concern, perhaps just interacting with him would reinforce her hold on the mystical energy field.

Beverly, noticing Aayla leaning against a wall, put down her tricorder and walked over. "I don't think I thanked you yet for what you did yesterday," the doctor said. Formerly lost in thought, Aayla snapped back to reality. "It was no trouble. Besides, I'm a Jedi knight, it's my duty to protect others," she said, the translator on her belt converting speech instantaneously. Beverly nodded, "I heard you use that term before during the briefing. What are the jedi?" Aayla raised an eyebrow. This really was a different universe. "The Jedi are the protectors of the Republic. We have used our powers to maintain civilization and order for thousands of years." Beverly remembered the strange ability Aayla had used to stop the Arbiter in his tracks. "Are all of your species telekinetic?" A smile played across Aayla's face. "No, no, not all jedi are Twi'lek, my species," she said then pointed at the unconscious human. "For instance, I can sense the Force flowing in him as well." The doctor looked confused, "The Force?"

"The Force is what gives a jedi her, or his, power. It is an energy field generated by all living things, and it permeates everything. When the Force is especially powerful in a person, when it flows through them, they can be trained to effect its movement, and thus effect the world all around." She grinned. "But I'm no master. I really can't explain it." Beverly was skeptical, but she had seen it in action herself, but she was still curious to how such a power was possible, especially if it crossed species boundaries. Was it hereditary? Did it develop with age? Her mind buzzed with questions. However, before she could start to ask, a nurse called from behind her.

"Dr. Crusher, another one is coming around."

Chapter Seven

Jacen Solo surveyed the room he had been given. Then he plopped down on a comfortable couch and began to mull the situation over. The last he could remember, he had been onboard the "Lady Luck," Lando Calrissian's personal star yacht. Jacen and a dozen other jedi knights had been implementing a risky plan, a last ditch effort to stop the Yuuzhan Vong jedi killers, Vyoxn. The invaders had unleashed the mutated beasts to track force users, and they had already killed nearly a dozen jedi. The plan was to infiltrate a Yuuzhan Vong frigate using the Lady Luck as bait, commandeer it, and find and eliminate the Vyoxn queen, from which all others were cloned. It was an insanely risky maneuver, and Jacen had objected to it, but it was the only shot.

Then he had awoken on this ship, been told he was no longer in the same reality, and that no one was sure how to send him back. The situation was exasperating at best, but there wasn't much to be done but wait. As he was mulling this feeling of hopelessness, his force-aided senses alerted him that someone was approaching his quarters. He had felt the presence, when he had awakened in sickbay, but his mind had been too cloudy for it to fully register. He reached out, and to his surprise, the being reached back. The approaching being could use the force! He jumped to his feet, and was already at the door before it beeped. Jacen ordered the sliding portal to open, and he was met with a most welcome sight. The person in the hall, flanked by the ever-present security officers, was a Twi'lek. She was tall and athletic in build, and her blue skin was striking next to the white of the walls. She wore tight, dark pants and a short, one sleeved top. As Jacen absorbed the image of the newcomer, his cheeks started to redden. He always got somewhat tongue tide around attractive females, even non-humans.

The older woman didn't seem to mind, and extended a hand. "Aayla Secura. Thought you might want to talk." Jacen, still flustered nodded and gestured for here to come inside. She looked around and then placed herself in a chair. "I overhead your name before. Jacen Solo right?" she said casually. Jacen nodded and sat down on the adjoining couch. "Yes, that's me." He looked her over again. "I don't think I've ever made your acquaintance before." Aayla searched her memory, trying to think if she had even heard of a jedi named Solo. Maybe he was still a padawan. "I don't think we've met either. Tell me who was your master?" she asked, curious. An odd question, Jacen thought, he and most of the other force-users he knew had trained under his uncle Luke Skywalker at the praxeum on Yavin 4. "Well I guess Luke Skywalker. Why do you ask?"

Did he mean Anakin Skywalker, Aayla wondered. Anakin was the only person of that name, but he was still just a padawan, albeit a powerful one, apprenticed to Obi-wan Kenobi. "Surely you don't mean Anakin Skywalker?" These words elicited a very unexpected reaction. Upon hearing the name, Jacen slumped slightly and Aayla could feel something akin to pity or sadness, as well as surprise emanating from him. "What's wrong?" Jacen looked into her eyes inquisitively "You knew my grandfather? But you look so young," with these words, some red tinted Jacen's cheeks again. Aayla didn't notice. "Grandfather? But Anakin is only twenty," she asked in confusion, forgetting even the problem that it was against the jedi code to form relationships that would lead to children. "When was it before you were transported to this ship?" Jacen asked quickly, something was definitely wrong. Still confused, Aayla rattled off a date, and Jacen's jaw fell marginally. "But that would mean that you're from the past, almost fifty years ago."

Aayla smiled disbelievingly, "So your telling me I'm from your past," she asked. However when Jacen nodded, Aayla was alarmed. She had thought at first it might have been one of those pointless little tricks males liked to play to pass the time, but she could sense no deception or humor from the young human. For a moment, both sat in silence, letting the shocking revelation sink in. Then, in Aayla's mind, a spark of curiosity light, this was her opportunity to have an unfettered and clear view into the future, something even master Yoda couldn't even accomplish. The Twi'lek moved forward in her chair and placed a hand on Jacen's leg excitedly. Startled by the unexpected move Jacen fidgeted, and Aayla removed the hand somewhat embarrassed herself. Pushing aside the emotion, Aayla launched into a line of questions. "I must know, did the Republic win the war?" she asked enthusiastically. "No, we it must have if your still here. How did we do it? Is master Yoda still around where you're from?" She would have continued pouring out questions like a geyser, but the look on the human's face stopped her. "Jacen?"

Like Master Luke, Jacen was fascinated by jedi history, their philosophy on the force especially, but his own curiosity has suddenly outweighed by a feeling of sorrow and dread. Aayla was from the Clone Wars, before Anakin Skywalker had fallen to the dark and aide in the slaughter of nearly all of the jedi. Jacen didn't want to tell her, be the bearer of such terrible news, but it was to late. As soon as she had seen the dour look on his face, she had known something was wrong. He sighed, resigned to his fate, "Yes, you won the war, but…"

Jacen proceeded in recounting all he knew off the dark time. Even though it was long before his birth, Master Luke had made sure each jedi know where the dark side could lead. He told Aayla of the betrayal of Palpatine and his self-coronation as Emperor. Of Anakin Skywalker's fall, and of the jedi purge. Jacen recounted the rise of the Galactic Empire, and the terror it spread. Then he came to the rebellion, and Anakin's, now Dark lord of the Sith Darth Vader, son and daughter, Luke and Leia. Jacen then told of the Battle of Endor, of Vader's redemption and the death of the Emperor. He also gave a quick over view of the rise of the New Republic, and the Yuuzhan Vong invasion that was threatening to destroy it. However, by that time, the Twi'lek was no longer listening.

She had remained remarkably quiet throughout the dark tale, and was now sitting in deep silence staring at the floor. Jacen could feel that in spite of her efforts to block the emotions, torrents of grief and anguish were emanating from her, stifling the area with hopelessness. Jacen wished he hadn't told her, that he lied, but she would have known. Guiltily, he placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. After a movement, she looked up at him, tears cutting long dark swaths across her beautiful face. In her eyes, Jacen could see all of the emotions he had come to expect from deep loss, although her desire for revenge was controlled more effectively than even he could in such a terrible situation. Perhaps the jedi of the Old Order were better at controlling their emotions. Or maybe she knew what had happened was completely beyond her control.

"How could it be?" she asked hopelessly. "How could the masters not have foreseen this?" Jacen had no answer, could not answer. Aayla stared blankly for a moment, and the rose abruptly. Jacen didn't try to stop her as she went for the door. She pushed trough the orifice and walk quickly down the bright hall, bewildered security officers in tow. Before the door could slide shut, the uniformed figure of the ships counselor, Deanna Troi, blocked it. "Is everything alright?" For a moment, Jacen wondered how the woman could have known about Aayla sudden grief, and then he remembered someone saying see was empathic. He rose and spoke wearily "I'm fine. Its just that," he paused. It would be difficult for a non-jedi to understand, even a well-meaning one. "It's a long story."

Master Chief was surrounded. From all sides, his sickly, mutated enemies, the Flood, moved in, charging over the floor or pouring in through cracks in the ceiling. Quickly, the soldier checked the ammo in his combat rifle, only sixty rounds left. He'd have to make them count. One of the enemy combatants, the corrupted corpse of a Covenant Elite, pushed forward, its tentacle hands reaching for him. The Chief put three rounds into the monster's chest and the leapt over the collapsing body. He landed on a pack of bobbling white, balloon-like sacks adorned with writhing tendrils, crushing three of them. The others leapt, but the heavily armored Spartan super soldier batted them out of the air with ease. Then the Chief spun around, just in time to dodge a rain of bullets coming from another mutated humanoid, a combat form, wielding a commandeered rifle. The Spartan rolled behind a metallic protrusion, and used it for cover as he sniped the offending warrior and two of its comrades. Then he climbed to the top of the boxy structure, popping several more whitish sacks as he went, and was given a full view of the situation. Below him were at least a dozen combat forms and large walking carrier forms that spewed several of the small balloon creatures when they died. In the confines of his helmet, Cortana shouted a warning "I'm picking up several more infection forms coming from the conduit directly behind us!" Heeding the warning, the Chief jumped to another metal buttress three meters away, bullets and plasma blasts reflecting of his shields. When he landed, the shield indicator HUD was a warning yellow. He'd better take care of this party quickly. Ignoring the bouncing infection forms, the Chief unclipped two grenades from his belt, primed them, and tossed them into the murderous throng.

He then dove behind the barrier as a tremendous thunderclap shook the chamber. Before the shrapnel had even stopped flying, the soldier rolled out into the fray, using his last bullets to mow down anything that moved. As the last rounds flew from his rifle, the Chief discarded the weapon and scooped a plasma rifle off the floor. After a dozen flashes of blue light, the battle was over. As the final combat form fell to the floor, the walls and metal protrusions of the chamber dissolved, leaving only a black room latticed by yellow lines. Amazing, thought Master Chief as the flood corpses and the very weapon he held disappeared, this so called "holodeck" was incredible. Short of live-fire exercises, this was the most realistic combat training course he had ever experience, instantly adjustable parameters, no chance of friendly-fire accidents, and no need to even waste real ammunition. Cortana was equally impressed, as even her own hologram had only a very restricted ability to interact with physical environments, and it was the most advanced projection the UNSC had ever created.

Data, who had aided the Chief in setting up the program, had observed over a monitor and was entering the now quiet chamber. "Incredible. Your armored exoskeleton surpasses any combat equipment the Fedoration has ever commissioned in strength, speed, and resilience. I do not believe even my reflexes compare with yours." "He is a real piece of work isn't he?" Cortana agreed over the armor's comm. The Chief inclined his head in gratitude to the commander. "Thank you for allowing me to use this facility sir. It was most invigorating," he said. Data nodded, "The Enterprise's holodecks are free to use at any time during your stay." The Chief nodded in thanks again and proceeded to the exit, Data falling into place next to him.

"There has still been no change at the nebula's collapse point?" Cortana inquired as the group passed into the hallway. She could have easily hacked into the ship's network and determined it herself, but she felt uncomfortable with potentially jeopardizing their situation. Besides that, the crew of the Enterprise seemed friendly and trustworthy enough, and in the last few days, Worf had even removed the omnipresent escorts from the guests as they moved about the ship, although security was still higher than normal. "The radiation levels around the point have decreased by nine percent, but it is still impossible to get an accurate reading. At the current rate of decay, the Sensor array should be able to get an accurate reading in approximately fifty one hours," Data replied. The Chief nodded, "I guess we just have to wait then." He then stepped into an open turbolift. "I'm heading to my quarters sir. Alert Cortana and I if there are any developments." Data nodded in acknowledgment as the doors clicked shut.

As the lift accelerated up, Cortana decided to interface with the ship's library and read up more on this dimension's history, so the Chief was left alone with his thoughts. The last three days had been quite unique, as well as a welcome respite. However, in spite of the peaceful atmosphere of the ship and its engaging facilities, the Chief yearned to get back to his own war. Not that he enjoyed killing or the feeling that he was about to be killed, it was that loyalty to his nation, his race was part of his very being and he couldn't stand the thought of the Covenant still pushing the human race into oblivion.

The thought of the Covenant brought to the Spartan's mind the Arbiter, who was pacing his quarters like a caged animal. Even though he no doubt had killed many humans in his service of the prophets, the Chief felt that he was more motivated by duty than the religious fervor that motivated most in the alliance of alien species. For this reason, he felt a certain kinship with the Elite, but years of war experience did not wash away easily. Master Chief might fight alongside the creature if necessary, but it didn't mean he would trust him.

The lift opened, and the Chief walked down the hall, still drawing curious looks from passengers and crew. As he moved, the Spartan tried to suppress another thought that drifted into his mind. What if he couldn't get back in it to stop the prophets from activating the Halo? Then Cortana, the Arbiter, and he would have little purpose in going back. All they would find would be a galaxy devoid of life, and all that the Chief had fought for, what his comrades had given their lives for, would be for naught. Days had passed, and the human's only hope was that time passed differently on the Enterprise, in this strange universe. Otherwise, he might as well make himself comfortable.

Chapter Eight

_Captain's Log, Supplemental: It has been five days since the arrival of the people who have been termed "the Guests." In that time, these six beings have given us a good deal of information on their respective cultures and timelines, as well as potentially valuable data for future reference in wormhole study. For the most part, the Guests seem to be fairly at ease with their surroundings, but all are understandably anxious to return to their respective dimensional planes._

_The metrion radiation field around the nebula's former position has decayed enough to allow the Enterprise to move in close enough to begin to take accurate readings of the area. _

The ready room's comm beeped. "Pause recording," the Captain ordered, putting down a data pad. "Yes Number One?" Over the audio channel, Riker's voice came in. "Captain, long-range sensors have picked up a Federation vessel approaching our position. They will arrive in three hours at present speed and heading." The Captain frowned. The ship would have to be moving at an unusually fast speed to pass through sensor range so quickly. "Have you been able to identify it yet?" After a moment, the reply came. " Its transponder reads as the Columbus." Picard had never heard of it before, but there were a lot of ships in the fleet, so that wasn't too unusual. "Notify me when the Columbus gets within communication range." Riker responded in the affirmative and left the Captain to his thoughts. Settling himself into the chair, Picard couldn't help but to notice the hairs on the back of his neck were raised. There was something wrong, very wrong, but he wasn't sure what.

In the ships main mess hall and relaxation area Ten-Forward, Aayla and Jacen sat at a corner table, talking quietly. They were positioned by the panoramic windows that adorned the large chamber, and just out of earshot of the group of senior officers who were looking at them with interest. "So Worf, are you convinced that they're not going to try and hijack the ship yet?" asked Geordi Laforge in a tone even Data couldn't have misinterpreted as being serious. Even so, Worf stared at him grumpily, a glass of prune juice in hand. "I was merely following standard first contact procedures. I meant them no insult." From across the table, Deanna Troi let out a humorous snuff. "Really Worf, he was kidding you."

The small group of officers who often assembled in Ten-Forward during off duty hours continued the typical pattern of jibbing Worf over his overly serious attitude and then switched to discussion of the events of the day. After a few minutes of discussing the quirks and antics of the crew and going over personnel transfer possibilities, Data, who was sitting next to the counselor, changed the subject. "What have been your recent experiences with our guests?" This question caught everyone's attention, as there had been little else discussed on the Enterprise since they're arrival nearly a week ago. The Captain had also encouraged the senior staff two show them around the ship and collect any information on their pasts they were willing to give. Deanna took the initiative and made an off-hand gesture to the two jedi sitting at the table nearby. "I've had a few discussions with Jacen Solo. Evidently, he and Aayla Secura are from different points on the same timeline," she said, and then sighed. "His past, and her future are very dark. Their entire order, the Jedi, was almost eradicated in a series of political upheavals." Worf took a sip of his drink, a mildly unpleasant look on his face. "I am uncomfortable around them. The abilities they have exhibited seem… unnatural." This remark triggered an irritated response from the counselor. "My empathic abilities might seem unnatural. Are you uncomfortable around me?" Worf looked suddenly embarrassed. "Well, no, of course not. But," he trailed off, at a loss for a suitable rebuttal.

Anxious to change the subject, Geordi spoke up, "Have you talked with any of them yet Worf?" The Klingon grumbled, "I'd rather not speak about it." This peaked other officers' curiosity. "Come on, tell us. It cant be that bad," Deanna prompted. Worf was about to refuse the request when Data interjected, "I believe the event the Lieutenant is referring to an event that took place in the calisthenics room at 7:00 hours yesterday. I observed Spartan 117 enter the facility unarmored for his morning exercises. While he was practicing a set of fairly unique combat stances, Worf entered the room." The Klingon grumbled something, but Data continued on un fazed. "I observed the Lieutenant comment on Master Chief's somewhat unorthodox stance, and when he remained adamant about it, Worf challenged him to a short sparring match. Master Chief initially objected, sighting problems of protocol and physical ability, but Worf was insistent." Geordi and Deanna listened in rapt attention. "What happened?" asked the engineer, putting down his drink. "The actual confrontation lasted only six seconds. Worf attacked first, employing a side-to-side chop, which Master Chief parried and pushed the Lieutenant off-balance. Worf was able to land a blow on his shoulder, but Master Chief used an open-palm shove to knock him off his feet. The Lieutenant did remarkably well, considering he was sparring with a cybernetically enhanced human whose speed and reflexes are point two times greater than mine."

To this tale, all Worf had to respond was "He was a worthy opponent."

At the nearby table, Aayla and Jacen sat, both gazing out at the stars. Jacen held in his hand a mug of hot chocolate which was remarkably similar to his Uncle Luke's favorite beverage by the same name. A glass of water sat in front of Aayla untouched. She was still dealing with the shocking revelation Jacen had unwillingly given to her. For a few days, she had remained in her quarters, meditating and trying to see if there had been signs, things that could have been done to stop the darkness before it began. Things that still could be done. She had eventually recovered enough to return to the outside, and she had spent most time with Jacen, as his presence was calming to her. They had talked a great deal, about themselves and about the Order during each of their times. Each one found the other's views and practices of the Force somewhat strange and misguided, but Aayla was not of a mind to debate philosophy, especially while still coping with the great tragedy.

Jacen was more careful and even headed than Aayla, but both were intelligent and possessed a similar wry sense of humor. They had a very strong repore and found they could talk together for hours, although Jacen was still somewhat uneasy, his teenage hormones clouding his mind when he was around her. Aayla, on the other hand, was quiet unencumbered by such feelings, more so than any woman he could think of. Perhaps it was just her personality, or perhaps there was something in the training of jedi of the old order was different.

At the moment, they were enjoying a quiet moment, Jacen enjoying his drink and watching the crowd of aliens and humans that talked and ate happily in the room, and Aayla looking reflectively into the field of strange stars. That was about to change. As Jacen drained the last of his cup, Aayla spoke, gesturing towards the window. "Look at that." Jacen turned his gaze out the window to see a pinprick of light in the distance growing larger and brighter. As it grew, he could begin to make out the distinctive nacelles that most Starfleet ships apparently carried. It reminded him of the old Y-Wing starfighters that had been used by the Rebel Alliance during the civil war. Before the starship became any more visible though, a strange feeling struck him. Most jedi had the ability to sense danger before it happened, sometimes just enough to block a blaster bolt on a lightsaber, other times as a vision years before hand. Although Jacen had certain philosophical and moral problems with who and when to use the Force, he still knew to listen to it.

An uneasy look passed over Aayla's face. "Do you feel that?" she asked, looking back at Jacen. He nodded. "There's something wrong, with that ship maybe." As the distinctive craft drew closer, the ominous feeling grew stronger, and Jacen began to rise from his seat, Aayla close behind. "Is everything all right?" Deanna asked from behind them. The two jedi turned to see the counselor standing next their table, a concerned look on her face. The other senior officers, still seated, were watching with interest. "Do you know if that is the ship is supposed to relive the Enterprise here?" Jacen asked. The plan was to transfer the guests over to the Columbus and have them wait there until a way was determined to send them back to their respective timelines. This would allow the Enterprise to resume its standard mission schedule.

By this time, the approaching ship had turned to run parallel with the Enterprise, well within transporter range. The dull metal colored hull configuration was now clearly visible. Upon catching sight of the starship, Worf suddenly stood up. "I was informed that Starfleet command was sending a science vessel," he said, consternation obvious in his voice. "That is an Akira class warship." Data too stood up, "I would suggest we proceed to the bridge immediately." Worf and Data then both departed, and Geordi mentioned something about being in Engineering, and he too left.

"There's something wrong with the people on that ship," Jacen said half to himself, trying to get a better feeling of what was wrong. Concerned by the Jedi's obvious unease and Worf's confusion, Deanna reached out with her own empathic senses. Although less powerful than either of the jedi, she too began to feel a strange mental state from the inhabitants of the warship, an odd sense of anger or even blind hate. She shook her head, confused by what she felt. Sometimes reading the emotions of alien species gave her false impressions, but most of the crew of that ship ought to be human, or at least Vulcan or Andorian who she had no difficulty reading. "I should go inform the Captain," she said, still probing the ship. "Maybe you two should come with me."

"Sir, the Columbus is hailing us."

"Onscreen."

The bridge viewscreen flicked from the empty starfield to the image of a middle-aged man, perhaps forty-five with short, brown hair. "Captain Picard, John Tasser of the USS Columbus. I trust you know why I am are here." His demeanor was friendly and calm, but something about his tone was slightly off, too abrupt. The Captain nodded, trying to seem genial. "Yes Captain, I am to transfer our visitors to your ship and continue our patrol route along the Neutral Zone." He moved forward slightly in the chair. "Although I would like to ask why you have been dispatched. Admiral Derado had informed me that he was sending a science ship. Has there been a change in plans?" As he spoke, Data and Worf got off the turbolift and relived the crewmen at Ops and the helm. "There has been a change. When the visitors are transported aboard my ship, I will take them back to Earth. The Enterprise may resume its patrol duties when the transfer is complete," said Captain Tasser in a purposeful voice, not changing his expression. This was indeed a change, and a very odd one. "Taking them to Earth? As I had understood it, these people were to wait here until a way was found to send them back to their respective timelines." The man onscreen stiffened his neck. " As I said Captain, a change in plans. I am on a tight schedule, so I would request that they be moved immediately." Before Picard could respond, the turbolift door opened and out stepped Deanna Troi followed by, to the Captain's surprise, the human and Twi'lek who had come onboard during the accident. "I need a moment with my senior staff Captain. Sorry for the inconvenience," the Captain said, turning back to the screen. The other man hesitated and nodded grudgingly, and the image switched back to a starscape.

"Captain, Jacen Solo and Aayla Secura have alerted me to a strange feeling about that ship. They say there is something wrong with its crew," Counselor Troi informed Picard walking briskly down the bridge's ramped floor. The Captain had heard of the two beings extraordinary powers of telekinesis and telepathy from Beverly Crusher and some of the reports of the bridge crew. "Do your own senses corroborate this strange "feeling" counselor?" he asked, looking the two jedi over speculatively. The Betazed nodded. "I believe so. At the very least, the Captain is hiding something." Picard considered this. It seemed that his sense of apprehension over the last few days might not be totally unfounded. From the seat next to the Captain, Commander Riker spoke. "I think we should see if Captain Tasser has any explanation for this before we jump to any conclusions." Picard agreed and had Data reestablish contact.

"Captain Tasser if I may ask, why are you taking the Guests back to Earth?" The brown haired man responded curtly, "That's classified. It is a direct Order from Starfleet Command, and I am at liberty to relive you of command if you do not comply." Picard was alarmed by the severity of his rebuke. Removing an officer from duty, especially a captain, was a very serious act and only used when absolutely necessary. Tasser was bringing up the possibility far too quickly. To his left, Deanna said under her breath, "You can't give them up to him, not yet. He's hiding something." Picard was inclined to agree. "I'm sorry, but I would feel much more comfortable with this mission change if I could get confirmation from Starfleet Command. I'm sure you can delay long enough for a transmission to be sent." Tasser was now glaring at Picard. "Negative Captain, my orders are very clear. If you will not relinquish the "Guests" then I'm afraid Commander Riker will have to relive you," he stated bluntly. Without hesitation, William Riker rose, resolute. "I will do no such thing, These orders are highly suspect and I will not carry them out until we get confirmation."

Then suddenly the irrational anger and impatience that had been building slowly in Captain Tasser surged forth. With a very inhuman growl, the screen snapped off. From behind them, Worf suddenly shouted, "The Columbus is raising shields and arming weapons!"

"What?" shouted the Captain, alarmed by this outrageous and sudden action. "Red alert! Battle stations!"

Chapter Nine

As the Columbus opened up with its phaser arrays, the Enterprise made a 80 degree turn away from its attacker and began to weave in between beams of crimson fire. In spite of its evasive efforts, a beam slammed into the Enterprise's rear shield, sending shock waves through the ship.

"Shields holding Captain, shall I return fire?" asked Worf, furiously working the tactical controls. "Fire on their weapons and engines only. Phasers only," the Captain ordered. He looked at the viewscreen, the pursuing craft filling it, in shock. He had never in his long history in Starfleet heard of a ship under Fedoration control attacking unprovoked. The fact it had attacked the flagship of the Fedoration fleet didn't help assuage his astonishment. But he quickly shook of his shock; he had a battle on his hands.

The Enterprise let lose its own weapons emplacements. The incoming ship took two direct pulses in the forward quarter of its shields, put it shrugged them off and kept coming. "Their shields are holding," reported Worf, and then glanced at a blinking display. "Torpedo incoming!" Riker called to brace for impact as the device struck the shields. The energy barrier flickered for a moment and came back up, but it was long enough. In the middle of the deck three shimmers of light appeared, forming quickly into humanoid form. However, they were not human, not really. As the light faded, three hideous creatures appeared in front of the bridge crew. They were vaguely human looking, and wore what might have once been a Fedoration uniform, but they were covered in thick, red, scabrous skin and had odd spiky protrusions growing from their bodies. In their clawed hands were held Fedoration issue phaser rifles, and they did not hesitate to use them. Two targeted the security officers who were posted on the bridge and the other swung his weapon towards Picard. Even as the first security officer was knocked off his feat from a viscous blast and the third creature began to trigger his weapon, two lightsabers one green, one blue, flashed to life and set to work. The blue one, in the hands of Aayla Secura bisected the closest monster, and vile gases poured from its gapping wound. Jacen Solo, emerald blade in hand leapt over the bridges raised guard railing and landed face to face with the creature that was threatening Picard. Its twisted face contorted and it tried to strike at the jedi knight with its free arm, but in a blur of motion, the creature found itself missing that arm. It then fired point blank at Jacen, but his blade deflected the killing blast into the floor, and with a rapid pushing motion, the creature found itself slammed against the wall, hemorrhaging toxic gas as it died. In the confusion, Worf and the remaining guard were able to fire their phasers into the remaining combatant, sending it sprawling to the floor.

Sure there were no more mutated beings on the bridge, Data resumed dodging the flurry of energy still emanating from the enemy ship. Pausing a moment to smile a thanks to the jedi who had saved him, Picard turned to Worf, who was returning fire again. "The shields?" Worf didn't look up. "Down to forty percent. That ship must be heavily modified, our phasers aren't penetrating their shields." Picard grimaced. They had to destroy the enemy ship; it was obviously intent on destroying them. "Proton Torpedoes?" From his side, Riker called out, looking at a display of the ship. "The torpedoes are offline. Some of those things beamed into the fire control station and blew themselves up." Picard looked at him, "Blew up?" Yes sir. The report says they exploded, taking half the room with them. Were down to half power on phasers." To compound the severity of the situation, another explosion rocked the ship. "Our shields are down to twenty percent!" called Worf.

Now it was time for one of the last ditch strategies Picard was famous for. He desperately searched his mind, racking it for a solution. The Enterprise was damaged, shields failing, the enemy still had shields and weapons, and an Akira was as fast as a Galaxy-class ship even at full power. "Can we go to Warp?" Data replied that Warp drive was offline. No escape, no chance of defeating the Columbus, what could be done. Then an odd notion occurred to Picard. "Data, were the sensors able to establish what was at the collapse point?" Data looked up briefly. "At last check, sensors detected the indicators of a possible wormhole at those coordinates, but there was not enough time to establish if it was stable or if it was not just a metrion distortion interfering with the scanning array." Riker walked to Picard's side. "Your not really considering that, are you sir?" he asked warily. "We don't know where it goes, and the spatial and temporal shear it could produce might rip the Enterprise apart." Another blast shook the bridge, and a wall panel exploded into a shower of sparks. "Looks like we don't have a choice do we number one?" Picard asked, struggling to remain upright. "Mr. Data set course to those coordinates, all auxiliary power to the engines."

The Enterprise suddenly made a sharp turn and rocketed towards the location of the suspected wormhole, the Columbus still in hot pursuit. A phaser blast hit the shields and penetrated them, rocking the fleeing craft and causing drive plasma to begin to vent from the port nacelle. In a final burst of speed, the Enterprise collided with the nearly invisible coalescence of energy that had once been the nebula and disappeared. Confused by the ships sudden appearance, the twisted and mutated crew of the Columbus, including John Tasser who had shed his disguise field waited a split second too long to decide between plunging in after its quarry or breaking of. The ship bisected the wormhole's mouth as it was veering off, and the entire starboard side was sheered off, plummeting into the cosmic gullet. What was left of the craft then spun out of control and in a brilliant flash as the antimatter containment in its reactor went down, the ship was scattered into glowing dust.

"Captain, are you all right?"

Picard felt a searing pain on his forehead and brought his hand up. He felt blood. He opened his eyes and could make out a blurry form above him, an arm outstretched. The Captain stumbled to his feet; hand still on his bleeding head. "Just a cut Mr. Data, I'm fine," he managed, looking around the bridge. The viewscreen was darkened and red emergency lights illuminated the room. Around him, the crew was scrambling back to their stations and the jedi were checking on the fallen bodies of the boarding party. "Status report." Riker stood next to Worf at Ops. "Casualty reports from all over the ship. There is a hull breach on deck Twelve, contained." From the helm, Data tried to determine where the ship was. "Sensors are down, Captain. Warp and impulse drives are also offline." To punctuate this statement, a conduit in the ceiling exploded, causing the crimson lights to flicker and showered the room with sparks.

"Life support and in ship communications are running on reserve power," Riker reported, checking a few more displays, and then frowning. "But I'm picking up anomalous readings from the warp core." Picard tapped his comm badge. "Bridge to Engineering, what's going on down there?" There was a burst of static and Geordi's came through. "…No! Reroute junction twelve to the secondary plasma conduit. You'll overload it otherwise. Captain, the plasma injectors have fused open, and they're overloading the core. I might be able to depolarize them or shut off the flow, but I'm not sure it will be in time." Picard considered, mulling over the possibility of abandoning ship without knowing anything about their position. "Is the core ejection system online?" There was a new burst of static, "Negative. The metrion radiation from the wormhole must have fused the system along with the injectors." A hiss and small explosion was heard over the channel, muffling the engineer's voice momentarily. "…Estimate twenty four minutes to core breach." The comm cut out.

Picard turned back to the bridge crew who were now watching him expectantly. "Suggestions?" Riker walked down the side ramp, straightening his uniform. "Can we separate the saucer section?" he asked, walking up behind Data. The android performed a check of the system, and a red indicator came on "Negative sir. The docking clamps are locked in place." The Captain sighed. It looked like they didn't have many options. Riker seemed to know what he was thinking and nodded reluctantly. Picard sighed and walked over to the panel inlaid into the arm of his seat, keying the intercom system. A whistle sounded throughout the ship, heralding the Captain's grim news. "All hands, this is the Captain. The Enterprise is undergoing an irreparable warp core breach and our options have been exhausted. I am therefore ordering all hands to abandon ship. I repeat, all hands proceed to the escape pods."

As the Captain shut off the signal, the crew on the bridge grew quiet and somber. Picard too was hit with a wave of regret. The Enterprise was a fine ship, and she had pulled her crew through more perilous situations than most could remember. He took a long look around the bridge, drinking in the contoured space one last time, and then steeled himself for the task at hand. " Number one, begin supervising the evacuation. Load the children and medical staff into the Captain's Yacht and the rest into the escape pods." Riker knew the procedure, and moved off to attend to his grim duties. He would evacuate on board the small yacht and take command if the Captain's escape craft was destroyed or separated from the rest of the evacuees. Picard looked after him for a moment, a fine officer; Riker would make a fine captain some day, if they ever made it back to the Fedoration. Pushing aside the thought, the Captain turned to Worf. "Lieutenant, move the security staff and emergency gear onto the shuttles. Hold the Horatio to depart last. I will be resuming command from it after the evacuation." Finally he turned to Data, who was still attempting to scan the surrounding space. "Mr. Data, I want you to get the these two and the other guests to the escape pods. They don't know our evacuation procedures." Data snapped a crisp nod in response and walked towards the two jedi, who were now trying to stay out of the way. "We are evacuating the Enterprise. I am to escort you to an escape pod." The jedi acknowledged this gravely and Data was about to lead them to the turbolift when Jacen paused, glancing at the mutated Fedoration officer that had been felled by phaser fire. "Wait, I'm sensing thoughts from him. He is still alive." The three clustered around the unconscious creature. Then Data slung the man across his back, easily compensating for the added weight. It was against his ethical programming to abandon a fellow officer to his death, even one in such a twisted state. "We must go." The group moved quickly to the lift, and as the doors closed around them, they looked at the Enterprise's bridge for the last time.

Chapter Ten

"What's going on Cortana?" the Chief asked, pushing his way through the milling crowds of the evacuating crew. The green titan pushed to the side as a hovercart hastened down the hallway, pushed by two sweating security officers. "It looks like their reactor is overloading. As you heard, the Captain has just order all aboard to abandon ship." After saying this, Cortana returned her concentration to the rapidly disintegrating computer system of the Enterprise, trying to ascertain where the wormhole had dropped the ship. The Chief pushed into an unoccupied room and checked his battle rifle. A full clip, and he had three more on him, along with his pistol and a handful of fragmentation grenades. Still, it wouldn't be enough if they encountered any more serious trouble, and he might have to commandeer a phaser.

Only a few minutes ago, he had been performing a routine maintenance check on his armor when the ship's alert system had activated. Cortana had hacked the sensor array and had told him that they were being fired upon and it looked like the enemy ship was transporting in boarders. The soldier had grabbed his gear and weapons, which had been held in one of combat lockers and was on his way to assist on the bridge or wherever he was needed when trouble had dropped in on him. The Chief had been making his way past engineering when three horribly disfigured humans had transported in right in front of him. For a fraction of a second he had frozen in surprise, unprepared for the tactical advantage transporters provided. When the beasts had targeted him with their phasers, he dropped one and dove into a side passage to avoid the energy beams. When the other two had lumbered around the bend, Master Chief had dropped another, but before he had time to target the last one, it exploded. The blast was sufficient enough to deplete his shielding significantly and blow him several meters down the hall. The explosion had also torn a hole through the floor and severed several backup systems, possibly why the Enterprise was now in such dire straights. Although the beings had looked reptilian, they had behaved much like the flood, and the bodies they were using had obviously once been human. As he moved down the corridor, the Chief shivered inside. He didn't want to face another foe like the flood. Give him a Covenant Hunter or squad of Brutes any day.

"There's nothing more we can do here, the ship is going to lose containment and explode in seventeen minutes," Cortana said somberly. "We should head for one of those escape craft. Maybe we can…" Cortana's thought was interrupted as a mass of splotchy purple and red exploded from a service entrance in the wall. The infested creature pinned him to the ground, depleting his shields with slashing serrated spikes. Around them, evacuating crew and civilians stopped abruptly and fled, dodging through doors and down hallways. The Chief pushed the thing away with one arm, and reached for his holstered side arm with the other. Grabbing hold of the M6c magnum, he twisted it into the vicious creature's chest and pulled the trigger. The being shuddered, and then collapsed onto the chief, acidic blood sizzling against the deck plate. He tossed the thing off and climbed to his feet; satisfied he had sustained no injuries. "Cortana, I thought you said all of those things were killed." He picked up his rifle and swept the area quickly, clearing it of any possible threats. "There was a good deal of distortion from the wormhole. The radiation might be interfering with the internal sensors. If there are more, we should probably move out now. The mutants might try to attack the escape hatches."

The Chief hurried from the combat area and found his way back to the steady stream of evacuees. He took up a defensive position behind the line of crew and their families as they headed for the escape pods, taking whatever they could with them. They were very agitated, as much as could be expected as they left their homes and possibly whole lives for good, but the Chief couldn't make out any signs of outright terror or shellshock. That was a good sign, maybe there weren't any more of the creatures on the ship. As the Chief turned a corner, he nearly collided with Commander Data, a mutated body slung across his back. He eyed the infested human and the two people behind the android, visitors like himself he recalled, and then nodded a curt salute. "I assume you are abandoning ship Commander." Data nodded. "Yes. I was looking for you. We must evacuate immediately, there is a bank of escape craft on the deck below us," he said. The Chief nodded hefting his rifle and gestured to Data's load, "Be advised, I encountered on of them alive just a moment ago. There may be more of them around." For a moment Data looked of speculatively, wondering how the creature's had avoided detection until now, but the uneasy movements of the jedi behind him snapped the android back to the task at hand. "We must be cautious." He started to move again, still talking. "I sent an alert to the Arbiter's quarters. I believe he is moving towards the escape pods as well."

The rest of the brief trip went by without incident, and the small group piled into the escape pod grid just as the last of the crew was leaving. They piled in easily, as the pod was built to accommodate at least eight, and Data began initiating the detach sequence. As the pod's engines hummed to life, Cortana gave up her final attempt to engage the sensors and flooded back into the Chief's mind, triggering the familiar freezing sensation. "Looks like were jumping blind," she announced over the helmet comm. Data, standing by the control panel, flicked a few final switches and the pod door sealed vacuum tight. As the Chief looked over his fellow passengers, seated nervously in the small chamber, he had a feeling of Deja vu. It was like his escape from the Pillar of Autumn, just before the landing on Halo. The Spartan clenched his fist, fervently hoping that it didn't turn out the same way this time.

From the vast disc of the Enterprise, a multitude of tiny cubes and shuttles detached from the dying ship, igniting thrusters and plunging into the blackness of space. More than a thousand souls, lost in an unknown universe, scattered and frightened. As the ships blasted away, energy began to pulse within the majestic ship. Deep within its core, ebbing jets of coolant flowed into the reactant chamber, but the reaction was too great. The engineering chamber was momentarily bathed in an eerie blue light as the warp core overloaded, and the center column erupted into translucent flame. In an instant, the nacelle-bound drive section erupted into jets of destructive flame, which spread over the saucer, melting away the armor plating, erasing the Enterprise's name from the burning hulk. Then what was left of the craft began to drift apart, tumbling through the emptiness, the glowing supports slowly warping and cooling.

From the shuttlecraft Horatio, Captain Jean-Luc Picard watched his ship drift in its cold and empty grave. The loss wrenched at his heart, but he was somewhat consoled by the fact that all aboard had made it off the ship and would live another day. Then his gaze left the remains of the Enterprise and looked into the stars. The inhabitants of the dead ship had a find a safe haven, a planet or a rescue ship, or they would die out in the unknown blackness. And it was Picard's duty to see them through. He turned to Worf, who was piloting the ship and beginning to coordinate the motley fleet. "Are there any planets on long range sensors Mr. Worf?" Worf checked the sensor suite and frowned. "None within impulse range sir. However, I am detecting planetary masses within a day's journey at warp two." The Enterprise's complement of shuttles included the warp five capable Runabout, two Class six shuttlecraft capable of a maximum speed of warp two, as well as two non warp Class fifteens and the Captain's Yacht, which was slower still. None of the escape pods had warp drives. "And the wormhole?" he asked. It was unwise to go back through, the Columbus might still be there, and even if it wasn't, the Orion Gammalon System was weeks from the nearest Fedoration outpost. Even so, it was wise to keep one's options open. The idea was moot the though as Worf shook his head. "I'm not picking it up on sensors. It may still be there, but the shuttlecraft's sensors are not accurate enough to locate it if it is." That left one option, send a scouting team to the shuttle and hope it was inhabited or at least possessed an inhabitable planet.

"Patch me through to Commander Riker's shuttle," Picard ordered, turning his attention to the collection of ships before him past the cockpit screen. A lieutenant sitting in the copilot's chair complied, and a moment later Riker's voice wafted over the comm. "Order's sir?" His voice was calm and even, but Picard could tell he was just as broken up about losing the Enterprise as himself. "We've detected a star system within warp range. I want you to lead an expedition with the Runabout to the system and try to determine if there are any inhabitable worlds there. If there are, we can begin shuttling the crew to it. I will remain here with the Horatio and begin sending an SOS. The shuttles have enough oxygen and supplies to last for several days." They both new that even if their was a inhabitable planet in the nearby system, it would be a miracle if all 1,011 crew and families could be transported in time, but they had to try. "Affirmative sir, I'll begin transporting an away team to the Runabout. Riker out." The Captain sighed tiredly and walked into the aft cabin of the shuttle. He had some thinking to do.

On board her escape pod, Aayla was becoming restless. The craft had been motionless for nearly half an hour. She didn't like waiting around doing nothing, especially not in cramped spaces like the pod. She could sense that the warrior in green armor, Master Chief he had identified himself, was too restless. Jacen on the other hand had decided to slip into a meditative state to pass the time and conserve oxygen. Aayla had attempted to do the same, but she couldn't concentrate. She was considering trying to start a conversation with one of the conscious beings on the craft when the comm buzzed. Data, who had been monitoring communication between the pods, answered it. "Lt. Commander Data," Commander Riker's voice came over the comm. "Prepare to be transported to the Runabout. We are searching a nearby system for habitable planetary bodies and I need you on my team. Data stood up and clicked his comm badge. "Aye sir." He looked over the other inhabitants of the pod, who were watching him with interest. "Commander, we were able to retrieve a living specimen of the boarding teams that tried to take the Enterprise. I would suggest he is beamed to Dr. Crusher's shuttle for examination." Riker replied in the affirmative and was about to transport the two when Aayla spoke up. "I would like to accompany you," she stated plainly. Data looked at her in curiosity and Riker's somewhat exasperated voice came over the comm again. "Miss Secura, I think it would be best if"

"I believe we may be in my native galaxy, my senses are picking up a stronger affinity for the Force here than on the other side of the wormhole. I might be able to aid you if you encounter anyone," she broke in. It was true that the Force did feel stronger, more in tune again, but she had been too distracted to notice until now. Jacen cracked open an eye at the sound of her voice. Over the comm, Riker sighed and then relented. "Alright, you can come. Prepare for transport." Then Jacen stood up. "I'm coming too," he said as Aayla cracked a small grin at him. Then Master Chief rose as well, Cortana's voice emanating from his helmet, "The Chief and I would request to accompany you as well. Were more use to you there than in this pod. The Chief has deactivated his shield to allow for transport." There was a very long pause, and Aayla could vaguely sense consternation mixed with amusement coming over the line. "All right you can all come, but you have to follow the chain of command to me. I can't have miscommunications disrupting the mission." They all agreed. "Alright, five to beam up."

Chapter Eleven

Riker surveyed the makeup of his team as the Runabout jumped to warp. Along with himself and Lt. Commander Data, who was piloting the craft, the conference cabin was populated by Worf, security officers Maxwell and Jossa, the two jedi Aayla and Jacen, Master Chief and his artificial counterpart Cortana who was at present acquainting herself with the shuttle. Riker had also considered taking along Geordi Laforge, but he had opted to leave him so the engineer could aid in the search for the wormhole mouth. Geordi had however; delivered good news, as he informed Data that he had saved the android's pet cat Spot from the destabilizing ship. Data had been quite gratified by this, as much as an emotionless being could be, although Riker wondered how many scratches Geordi had sustained retrieving the animal. Data's cat was notoriously nasty to those other than his master, or at least Riker himself.

As the commander looked over his crew, he suddenly wondered why he had agreed to so many crew on this mission. It was true each of them possessed potentially helpful skills, but he could have easily completed a survey of the target star system with just Data. Maybe his intuition was telling him something.

"Alright, I'm not expecting any complications, but we have to be careful." Riker nodded towards Aayla. "Aayla Secura has informed me that there is a strong possibility that we are in her and Jacen Solo's reality. If that is so, I will rely on you two to initiate contact if we encounter anyone in that star system. Arrival time is in an hour and fifteen minutes. Until then, make yourselves at home." With that, he walked out of the room, heading back to the cockpit to check on Data. As he left, the small group settled in for the short trip. Jacen moved into a back room, hoping that a less quiet setting could bring him more in tune with the Force. Aayla, on the other hand remained, carefully watching the Spartan in the corner. Master Chief propped himself against a wall, and set about cleaning the barrel of his magnum. Worf and the security officers drew up seats around the table. Jossa broke out a pack of playing cards and she and Maxwell began a game of poker, Worf watching half-hazardly, not joining in. Aayla however, took interest. She moved up behind Maxwell and watched a few hands. "It looks very similar to sabacc, mind if I join in?" she asked, taking a seat. Most jedi didn't play sabacc, but Aayla had taken it up from a squad of clone troopers on a hyperspace jump from Ord Mantell to Coruscant.

The two officers paused momentarily, sizing her up, and then Jossa dealt her in. After only a few hands Aayla had worked out the rules of the game and the trio began to play in earnest. One of the reasons jedi rarely played games of that sort was due to their ability to sense the feelings and motives of those around them, voluntarily or not. After a few winning hands, Aayla embarrassedly remembered to block her telepathic connection to the force, and the game continued, and very soon the three were having a very good time, and the destruction of the Enterprise was pushed to the back of the their minds for the moment. From across the table, Worf smiled inwardly. Whether she meant it or not, the Twi'lek was providing his men with a much needed distraction. If they ran into to trouble, their minds had to be undistracted by the recent loss of what was almost certainly their only home.

As the group in the main chamber continued their game, Jacen, cross-legged in the rear crew quarters, blocked out the muffled noise they made. He was intent on reaching out with the force, if to no more than to determine where and when they were. The young knight took a deep breath and let the omnipresent presence that is the Force flow through him. Cautiously, he let his senses perceive the vague emanations of life that where present every place in the galaxy, and felt a familiar buzz in the back of his mind. He smiled slightly, the masses of beings he felt were well known, ones he had grown up with. Reassured, he was about to rise and join Aayla and the others when suddenly he felt something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

He hadn't noticed it at first, too distracted by the familiar sensations of his universe, but something was distorting or clouding the force. The energy field was different, dark and unbalanced. It was if the ocean that was the universe had become polluted and murky. For a fleeting moment Jacen feared that they had traveled to his future, and the Yuuzhan Vong had succeeded in eradicating the jedi and spreading their Force-absent presence throughout the galaxy, but it was not so. The Force was still present, still strong, but it was changed, dark, darker than he had ever felt it, even when he had been held at the renegade Shadow Academy. The dark jedi who had been just that, jedi, and although tainted, some balance had remained, but here, the opaque and almost suffocating. Even as he probed the fringes of the blackness, a presence stirred within it, and began reaching out, searching. Abruptly, Jacen broke the meditative state and jumped to his feet, his eyes obscured by a cold sweat.

For a moment Jacen just stood in the small bunkroom, wiping moisture from his brow, and then he moved quickly through the small ship to the main room. As he slid through the door, Aayla looked up, feeling his consternation. She lay down her hand and slowly stood up. "What's wrong Jacen?" she asked, concern obvious in her voice. The others in the room looked towards them with interest. "Haven't you been able to sense it, the darkness?" Jacen asked, still reeling from his experience. Aayla frowned. "You mean you felt something while you were meditating? I haven't been able to really concentrate." She placed a hand on the man's arm. "What did you feel?" He looked into her eyes a moment, and the familiar squirmy feeling appeared back in his stomach, helping to clear his head. "I felt the dark side of the Force, it is strong. Too strong. I don't think were in my time, no we can't be." Aayla considered this. "If that is true, then we may have jumped back into the middle of the war." She looked out the window to the smeared starscape of the warp field. "Lets just hope we're not flying into a gundark's nest of trouble."

Like an endless mountain range of crystal, the titanic spires of Coruscant stretched from horizon to horizon, eclipsing the dusk sky. Below the bustling skyscrapers of the Imperial capital, streams of aircars and repulsor vehicles formed glowing lines over the planetwide city. Trillions of inhabitants of all species lived, worked, and served in this artificial jungle. At the very heart of this unimaginably huge metropolis was the Imperial City, some of its colossal structures towering kilometers high, held in place by massive grids of gravity supports. These buildings were, however dwarfed by the palace itself, a monumental pyramid of metal and stone, and easily the largest structure on the planet, perhaps in the galaxy. And from this titan's peak sat a single man, staring down on the glittering metropolis. It was all his. All that Emperor Palpatine, Sith Master and unquestioned ruler of the known galaxy, could see was his, and he wanted more. He wanted all.

A small being, dressed in a modest black robe and bearing a small, wooden cane sat in a massive durasteel throne, overlooking a massive window. His face was obscured by a ominous hood, but beyond the shadow gray wrinkled skin and rotted yellow teeth were visible. The dark emperor's mouth was creased into a sickly smile, and he was in deep thought. At the fringes of his vast power, he could feel a mind, one powerful in the force, one he had never felt before. A jedi, he was sure of it. Most of their weak order had been wiped out during the Clone Wars, the conflict that had allowed Palpatine to rise slowly to power. Then, as part of his New Order, his apprentice Darth Vader and imperial death squads sought out the surviving jedi and terminated them. They had been very efficient, as in the last decade; only a handful of jedi had been discovered and terminated, including the old Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. Now Vader was pursuing the last of them, a young rebel named Skywalker, Vader's son. Palpatine knew full well that Vader wished to turn his son to the Dark Side of the Force and overthrow him, but there was no threat. Palpatine would simply turn the tables on his traitorous apprentice, and after Vader was killed by his own son, young Luke Skywalker would become servant to the dark one. It was already in motion, and did not concern him.

This new presence however, did catch Palpatine's interest. As soon as it felt him searching, it withdrew, but the Master already knew too much. The foolish jedi would be found, and Vader would offer him the same ultimatum as he offered every jedi he confronted; join the dark under Palpatine or die. Vader had to kill them all, none ever submitted. But, Palpatine thought as he reached for a control panel inlaid in the right arm of his mighty seat, this one was foolish enough to broadcast his existence unprotected through the force. Maybe this time, he would turn, but it mattered not, as long as the threat was eliminated. With a slight flick of his right fore finger, the throne room's comm came on. "Inform Lord Vader that I wish to speak with him." The words were gentle, but they were undeniable. No one kept the Emperor waiting. No confirmation was necessary to know that the order would be carried out and the comm flipped off again. Palpatine settled back into his metal seat, chuckling darkly as he returned to his ominous and brooding works. The pieces were in motion; the final destruction of the jedi was near.

Chapter Twelve

"Sir, we have reached the target system. Dropping out of warp now," Data informed Commander as they sat in the cabin of the Runabout. Riker nodded a confirmation and arose to inform his team. His apprehension about the mission was steadily growing, especially after the news the jedi had delivered. Riker was still mystified by their powers, but after they had saved him and the Captain, he was willing to give the foreboding premonition the benefit of the doubt. All the same, the mission still had to be completed if there was any hope of saving the stranded crew of the Enterprise, and the Commander just hoped it would go off without any major hang-ups. Then again, missions rarely went as planned. Before he could reach the exit, Aayla and Jacen, who pushed into the small cockpit, blocked it. Riker nodded to them in recognition, and sat back down.

"Were about to enter the target system." He looked up into Jacen's anxious face. "Are you picking up any trouble ahead?" Still peering out the viewport, Jacen shook his head. "No. But I can't really look into the future. From time to time, jedi can sense impending danger or the presence of something dangerous, but I'm certainly not omniscient." Riker nodded and settled back into his seat. It seemed there was a limit to their abilities.

"Engaging impulse engines," Data stated, tapping a command into his control panel. At that, the image beyond the transparent plate shifted from swirling starlines to the blackness of space, dotted with stars. "Sir, I'm picking up a great deal of communications traffic. Most of it is automated, wideband transmissions delivering repeating syntactical code, most likely navigational instructions. I can not identify any of the symbols." Aayla looked over his shoulder. "Let me see." Data quickly generated a long line of boxy symbols flowing across a computer screen. "That's Aurebesh, galactic basic. These are approach vectors and local regulations for a planet called Poloon Three." She glanced up at the approaching planet, still just a speck of light beyond the screen and glanced over at Jacen. "I've never heard of it." Jacen moved beside her and peered into the depths of space. "I have. When I was younger, my father took me here. There's only one city on the planet, Starlane City I think it's called. It's a re-supply depot for small freighters passing through the Mid Rim, a very seedy place. Dad liked to go there to "soak up the local color" as he put it."

Despite his crisp, formal appearance, Will Riker had seen his share of seedy hangouts on the borders of Federation territory, and he could navigate the places fairly well. It was not exactly what he had been hoping for, but the crew of the Enterprise had only a few days of supplies, so he couldn't be choosy. "Do you think we can find a pilot who could help recover the survivors?" he asked Jacen. The young man nodded in response, "there are always freighter pilots looking for work." Jacen stopped to consider. "Of course, anyone we find will be expect to be paid. As I remember, even the docking fees on this planet are exorbitant." This comment caught Riker off guard. The Federation did engage in trade with its neighbors like the Ferengi, but commerce within the alliance had been phased out for decades. Seeing the surprised look on Riker's face, Aayla put in wryly "And I'm assuming you don't have any credits." Riker shook his head, now pondering the quandary. "Perhaps we could offer something of value in exchange for a starship's services." Data suggested.

Aayla glanced back into the main cabin, where the rest of the team waited restlessly. "This ship is pretty spartan, I don't think you have anything that we could use to barter," but then her eye caught a few poker chips, which the security officers were quickly packing away. "Then again, there might be an alternative."

Starlane City, if it really could be called a city, was a typical small greasy freighter stop, just off the Heccordan Hyperspace Loop, a popular passage for small time crooks and down-on-their-luck spacers. Built around the crashed hulk of an ancient ore freighter, now the city's governmental and trade hub, the skies above Starlane were smattered with groups of battered starships taking off and landing on small, dingy docking pits. Data skillfully wove around decrepit residential towers and past the flowing lanes of traffic, guided by an automated landing code. The sleek, metallic craft gracefully dropped through the layers of thin urban sprawl, conspicuously polished and new. With a puff of its thruster jets, the shuttle alighted on the worn ferrocrete landing pad, which was recessed in a dank, gloomy pit. From a door in the rounded wall emerged a rodian in a dirty jumpsuit, his scaly green skin tarnished with oil and grease. In his hand he held a bulky datapad and a well-worn Bryar blaster pistol was slung on a thigh holster.

From the Runabout's rear hatch emerged Commander Riker and Security Officer Aleen Jossa, both dressed in drab coveralls at Jacen's suggestion, as their bright uniforms would draw attention unwanted in such a seedy area. Behind them emerged Aayla and Jacen, the Twi'lek carrying a small pouch on her belt. The others had agreed to stay behind, both because they were needed to guard the ship and the fact that Klingons and fully armored super soldiers were not very common sights at a freighter depot. The Rodian sized the group up, and then approached Riker, datapad outstretched. From it's mouth buzzed a rapid series of guttural sounds and garbled words. The universal translator on the Commander's belt attempted and failed to translate the message; the alien was not speaking Basic. Fortunately, Aayla stepped forward, replying in the same rapid tongue. "How long you stay here?" the Rodian asked, scanning the female before him with bulbous eyes. "Only a few hours. Looking for some help." Aayla replied in heavily accented rodian, using the short jargon spacers often used. The alien tapped at his pad with a suction cup tipped finger. "Ninety creds," he said finally, extending a greasy hand. Aayla looked at him carefully and then reached slowly into the small pouch at her side, withdrawing three blue poker chips. Riker eyed her with alarm and confusion, but kept quiet. "Ninety credits," she said smoothly, handing over the ceramic objects. The dock keeper took the worthless chips, looked then over, and inserted them in a deep pocket.

After a few short formalities, the rodian walked back to his small wall office, leaving the small group alone. Riker was the first to speak. "You use poker chips as currency?" he asked disbelievingly. Aayla laughed softly, "of course not. I simply made him believe that he was paid. I'm not particularly adept at influence, but he wasn't very attentive. He won't realize he was paid with those chips until we're long gone." Riker was taken aback, "You're robbing him?" From what he had heard and seen of the jedi, he hadn't expected such dishonest behavior. Aayla stared into his eyes, "We don't have much choice do we. Besides, I will make sure that he gets his money, as soon as I am in a position to provide it." Considering the matter closed, she turned to Jacen. "Now, maybe we should head out. Lead the way." Jacen nodded numbly, and after a pause pointed towards the exit. "We ought to be fairly close to a cantina. We can find a pilot there."

The companions moved out of the dank docking area and into a dingy street, populated by hurrying spacers and various disreputable characters. As they headed past holographic advertisement screens and broken streetlights, Jacen walked closer to Aayla, touching her shoulder uncomfortably. "Don't you think that what you did was dangerous?" he asked cautiously. She gave him a sidelong glance, "It was necessary. Besides, I meant what I said, he will be paid back, and no harm will come of it." Jacen shook his head. "No, I mean don't you think that using the Force so bluntly was skirting a little to close to the dark side?" It was true that even Master Skywalker occasionally used gentle mind manipulation when necessary, but Jacen had always believed jedi of the Old Order had been above such necessities. Aayla gave a slightly exasperated sigh. "It is true that the path to darkness is often shrouded and abrupt, but an act like that will hardly turn me or you into a Sith. Your master should have taught you there is a fine line between caution and apathy." Jacen considered these words. Luke Skywalker had single-handedly reformed the jedi order, and all current jedi were influenced by his teachings. By his own admission, Luke's training was incomplete, and his teachings had been strongly affected by the dark story of Darth Vader, his father, even after his redemption. Perhaps the line between light and dark was not as thin as Luke believed.

The group blended easily into the crowd and and followed it's flow until they entered a larger and more crowded causeway, packed with merchants hawking their wares from street side stalls. Jacen stopped by information kiosk manned by a battered protocol droid to find the nearest cantina, and the others tried not to get separated in the milling crowd. As they waited, a small Cathar boy skittered down the street recklessly, and accidentally rammed into Aayla and falling to the ground. The jedi stooped over and helped the tan, whiskered child to his feet. "Are you all right?" she asked, dusting him off. The boy looked her over quickly, his large eyes lingering on the small metal tube of her lightsaber clipped to her belt. Then he shook his head, mumbled something indeterminate, and broke free melting back into the crowd. Aayla, stood up, looking after him puzzled. "Anything wrong?" Riker asked, now standing off to her side. Aayla shook her head and spook, mostly to herself, "Well, no. It's just that I felt something strange from that boy, fear maybe." Riker looked up at the decaying prefabricated structures and blaster pockmarks in the duracrete walls. "Well, if I lived here, I might be a little frightened too." Then Riker motioned to where Jacen was standing, his talk with the guide done.

Their approach to the nearest cantina, an establishment called the Hazy Mynock, was short and unhindered until they were almost at the illuminated entrance, when Jacen stopped short. The others paused as well, "What's wrong?" Riker asked. The man pointed down the now crowded street, towards a steadily approaching group of figures. The six humanoids were in stark contrast to the surrounding throng, clad in blight white casts of menacing body armor. Each carried a large firearm in the crook of their arms, and followed a soldier who's bleached form was adorned by a gray shoulder plate. "Stormtroopers," he stated, puzzled. The imperial remnant of his day would never waste the increasingly rare Stormtrooper on such an insignificant world. In fact, the small and isolationist Empire didn't even control the Poloon system anymore. That could mean only one thing. The Emperor was still alive at this point in time, and the Galactic Empire was still at full strength. That explained the sickening presence Jacen had felt during his meditation, and the sudden revelation shook him to the core. Here, now, Aayla and himself were fugitives, an atoms width from discovery and execution.

"Those aren't Clonetroopers," Aayla commented warily. Although their armor was strikingly similar, the humans inside those suits were not the clones of Jango Fett she had fought along side with, loyal and resolute. Instead, their minds were different, trained for a different purpose, a darker one. "Hide your lightsaber, quickly," Jacen ordered in an unusually hard tone, shoving his weapon into a pocket in his vest. Aayla complied, knowing that Jacen must have good reason to fear these soldiers. Before either of the others could question the odd behavior, Jacen herded them into the dark cantina, noisy with wailing Jizz music from an entertainment module on the wall and the drunken clamor of the bar's patrons. Pilots and mechanics of all species sat around smoky tables and at holo-terminals, drinking and generally making noise. The jedi selected a secluded table and sat them down. "Are you going to tell me what's going on or am I going to have to guess?" asked Riker sarcastically. Quickly, Jacen explained their predicament, of being on an Imperial controlled world during the time of Palpatine. Riker's expression grew dark. "Then we have to find a pilot and get out of here quickly. I will not allow either of you to fall into enemy hands." Aayla grunted, "That's reassuring." If these Stormtroopers were anything like the soldiers she had fought alongside with, Riker and Jossa weren't going to be much help if the situation degenerated any further. Before Riker could respond, the security officer nudged him. "Sir, we've got company," she whispered, gesturing towards the doorway to the cantina. The squad of troopers had entered, and their leader was questioning a grisly old man who seemed to be in charge of the establishment. The gnarled man was waving in their general direction. "Looks like we've already outstayed our welcome," Jacen said, slowly rising, his hand hovering near the concealed lightsaber.

Riker also got up and began scanning the hazy room for exits. "Maybe we can slip into the crowd and," "Its too late," Aayla said softly, cutting the Commander off. Indeed, the squad had rounded the oval bar at the center of the cantina and was headed towards their table, their blasters raised to a guard position. The lead soldier stepped to the head of the table, blocking the group's escape. "Identification," he ordered coldly, his voice made slightly tinny by his helmet's speaker unit. Riker stepped forward and threw on a nervous smile, "What seems to be the problem?" The stormtrooper, evidently an officer by the ornamentation on his shoulder, looked at him through cameras built into his helmet's opaque eye bulges. "I need to see your commerce license or a valid resident ID." He responded, a gloved finger wavering over the firing stud of his E-11 blaster rifle. Aayla took a deep breath and stepped forward, looking directly at the trooper's face, her force presence expanding from her body. "We're just passing through. You don't need to see our ID." The stormtrooper paused for a moment, staring into her beautiful eyes, his mental walls breaking. What did he need them for, and besides, he was behind schedule. He was about to turn away and lead his squad back out into the street when his stiff training, all the methods he had been taught to detect and defeat mind tricks of the hated jedi, kicked in. Ice flowed through his veins and he whirled, his blaster pointed at Aayla's head. "Freeze, Jedi scum!"

Chapter Thirteen

Aboard the shuttlecraft Commonwealth, Beverly Crusher had her hands full. Even though the evacuation of the Enterprise had been by the book and without injury, there were numerous crewmen who had been wounded during the Columbus's attack. "Nurse, get a splint on that broken leg and then transport him back to his pod," the Doctor ordered, pointing at an ensign propped against the wall of here makeshift medbay. An orderly rushed to assist the man, and Beverly turned to the remainder of her patients. Over the last few hours, most serious injuries had been stabilized, and the only people left were the ones with various broken bones and cuts. The doctor was relieved that the cue of men and women waiting for attention had dwindled to a handful; she was running out of both energy and medical supplies.

After binding one last wound, Dr. Crusher turned her attention to the most interesting case on the vessel. Lying on a makeshift bed at the very back of the small shuttle and accompanied by an armed guard were the still unconscious gray alien who had arrived a week ago and, more interestingly, one of the mutants who had boarded the Enterprise during the battle. Taking up a medical tricorder she began scanning the deformed creature, which was still under the watchful eye of the guard. Information began flowing across the device's screen and Beverly took it in intently. Whatever it was now, the thing had once been human, although most of its internal organs, dermal tissue, and nervous system were now completely alien. Without more advanced medical equipment, she couldn't place what had caused the changes, but judging by the cracked, skin that still surrounded violet and red scales, she judged that it had happened very quickly, perhaps in a day or two. Then she spied something even more unusual on the readout and called a nurse over.

"Yes Dr. Crusher?" the young man asked, trying to avert his eyes from the corrupted thing on the table. Beverly handed him the tricorder. "What do make of this, the readings near the right lung?" The man looked over the instrument, puzzled. "It would appear that there is a large amount of hydrogen and nitrogen in a cavity attached to the centrally lobe." Beverly nodded, "Yes, that's what I thought. I cant image what purpose it would serve though, or even how he's still alive with that bulge so close to his lungs." The orderly thought for a moment. "Perhaps they can ignite the sacks, there were reports of some of the creatures blowing up onboard the Enterprise." The doctor nodded in agreement. This made sense, and it appeared that whatever had changed this human, it was meant to turn him into a weapon.

For the next half an hour, the two examined the mutant, taking bio-readings and skin samples for further study. Finally, she dismissed the nurse and set about compiling a preliminary report. It occurred to her as she filed the data into a portable recorder that no one at Starfleet Med might ever see or hear this report, that the entire could be trapped in this unknown universe for the rest of their lives, but she quickly repressed the notion. There was work to be done, and she wouldn't have it be interrupted. Unfortunately for Dr. Crusher's report, something else broke her concentration. As she was staring out the viewport, think of a classification to place her subject's injuries under, a surge of movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Turning her gaze, she momentarily thought it was Riker's Runabout returning, but only a quick glance told her differently.

The Imperial Star Destroyer Torrent slid out of the blackness of hyperspace with majestic and powerful glace, its gray hull obscuring the starry void of space. Fresh from the shipyards of Kuat, the mighty imperial warship was a full kilometer long, and was armed with enough weaponry to lay waste to an entire planet in a day. Its iconic wedge-shaped hull was feared throughout the galaxy; wherever the Emperor's corruption and might had spread they enforced his will through terror and raw force. Even by themselves, these ships could subjugate entire civilizations, and they had done so many times.

On the T-shaped bridge of this monstrous city of durasteel and armor plate, Captain Meterin Coloth stared into space, past ominous frame of his ship. In the distance, he could make out pinpricks of light, his prey. Hearing the muffled clank of footsteps behind him, the Captain turned to see a brown-uniformed lieutenant giving him a stiff salute.

"Report." The young man smartly placed his arms at his sides. "Our sensors confirm that the craft off the starboard bow are the same identified by our observation post in the Casserta system," he stated in Coruscant-accented basic. "We are detecting at least a hundred small craft, probably escape pods. None are armed." The Captain nodded in recognition, frowning slightly. He had hoped for more of a challenge. "Begin bringing them aboard. Send four teams to escort the passengers to the detainment block; I want them all alive for questioning. Find their leader and bring him to me, I will deal with him personally." The junior officer saluted sharply and moved off between the crew pits that split the bridge. Coloth turned back to the observation windows and watched as squadrons of Tie fighters began to form a perimeter around the distant escape ships. As the Torrent moved within range of its tractor beam projectors, He contemplated his new mission. Only a few hours ago, he had received orders from sector command pulling him off his normal patrol route and diverting him to this deserted patch of space. His only orders had been to detain any ships he found there and question their commander on his identification and purpose in the area. Vague orders were common enough and Coloth was as loyal an officer as one could be, but he still was curious to what importance these tiny ships could have. Then he sighed resignedly, and continued his observation of the capture effort.

"Have they made any attempt to communicate?" asked Picard anxiously, seated in the cockpit of the Horatio as the tiny ship was dragged towards the unidentified colossus of a starship that lay before him. " Negative sir," the officer at the controls stated. "They just launched fighter craft and began bringing our ships with a graviton emitter of some kind." The Captain had hoped to attract a rescue ship with their distress beacon, but he had hoped that their saviors would be more sociable. Then again, they had taken no offensive action yet, and some cultures behaved differently during first contact situations than others, so the Captain could only hope they were friendly. Of course, judging by the readings of the armament and structure of the other ship, there wouldn't be much the scattered fleet could do against them even if action was required. The Horatio's sensors couldn't penetrate the thick, unknown alloy that encased the craft, but visual scanning revealed it was covered in hundreds of bulges and structures that looked suspiciously like weapons installations.

"Signal the rest of the escape craft. Have then lower their shields and cooperate with whoever is on that ship," Picard ordered the pilot. "Lets just hope I can reach an agreement with our hosts." By this time, Picard's shuttle was being pulled under the bow of the enormous starship, towards a vast opening in the titan's underbelly that was nearly the size of the Enterprise itself. The ship dwarfed any vessel in the Federation's arsenal, and was almost the size of some of some of its larger space stations. Any race that could construct such a ship had to be at least as advanced as humanity and its allies, if not more so. The Captain rose, straightening his uniform and trying to recall the dozens of first contact missions he had conducted for the Fedoration. Such missions were always fulfilling, and Picard was typically able to work them out equitably, but he had a strange feeling this time, a sense of foreboding.

The Horatio was guided slowly up into the massive, brightly light bay and touched softly to the ground. After the pilot confirmed the outside environment was livable, Picard motioned for the three other crewmen aboard the vessel to remain where they were and opened the ship's hatch. With a faint his, the door pulled away, revealing a truly cavernous facility. Before him stretched black, polished floor plates that stretched to gray, unadorned walls some fifty meters away. Around his shuttle, escape craft and shuttles from the Enterprise were being deposited in orderly rows, pulled up through the gaping entry point in the floor, who's energy shield flickered each time a ship passed through, holding in atmosphere. As the Captain stepped to the deck, throngs of humanoids disgorged from entry points in the towering walls, clad in shades of white and black. Most had their faces obscured by armor or darkened screens, but to the Captain's surprise, the few with unprotected heads were plainly human. Suddenly, it occurred to the Captain that these people might be of the same group as Jacen, the human jedi who was with Riker on the Runabout. Encouraged by this possibility, Picard flipped the universal translator clipped to his side on.

The denizens of the huge starship began splitting into groups and proceeding to each of the Starfleet vessels, and a group approached the Captain. These were six of them, each dressed in full body white armor and carrying a black device that Picard suspected was a weapon. The lead soldier stepped forward, "Where is your commander?" it asked in a flat tone, the translator whirring to change the speech into English. Relieved that they spoke in a tongue that the device could interpret, the Captain replied, "I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the United Federation of Planets." Before he could continue the introduction, the lead soldier cut him off. "He's the Captain. Escort him to interrogation chamber one." At this order, three of the troopers moved over to the Captain, and one grabbed his hands, placing them in bulky metal binders. This was definitely not the reception Picard hoped for. "We come in peace. Our ship was destroyed in an accident, and we simply required aide," the Captain tried to assuage his captors, but they were already shoving him towards the nearest exit, their weapons aimed at the small of his back.

All around him, the white-armored troopers were herding his crew off their ships. Most were too bewildered to resist, and the rest were still under orders to cooperate with their captors, but some were still less than friendly. Just as he was approaching the exit, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure, the one called The Arbiter he remembered, lunge at the white armored troopers. Two soldiers jammed the butts of their rifles into his back, but he knocked them back and was about to grab one of their weapons when the others opened fire with blue jets of light. Four hit him at once, and the Elite's shields flickered. He staggered then lunged for the nearest attacker, bowling him to the ground. More bolts of light hit the warrior and he twitched violently, but still managed to move forward. It took another volley of blue fire to send him sprawling to the ground. In spite of himself, Picard began to move towards the fallen elite, but a trooper put a hand on his shoulder and stated, "They are using stun blasts, he is uninjured." There was something different about the voice of this particular soldier, but Picard couldn't place it. Abruptly, he was shoved again towards the door. "Keep moving."

Stripped of his com badge, Picard was thrown into a small, black room light only by a bright ceiling light and furnished with a single metal table and two hard metal seats. Sighing, he slid into an uncomfortable chair and waited. This was definitely not the reception he was hoping for. After only a few minutes, the cell door slid open, and a tall, clean-shaven man walked in. He was dressed in a stiff, gray uniform, and flanked by two white-armored soldiers. He was perhaps a few years older than Picard with graying black hair and walked with a sort of aristocratic grace. He took a seat across from Picard and the troopers took up places behind him. "Identify yourself and explain why you are infringing on Imperial space," he ordered calmly. The order was simple and straightforward, and Picard hoped he had been given a chance to turn a bad situation around. The translator, which had fortunately been left in Picard's possession, whirred to life as the Captain began his tale. He gave an abbreviated account of the last week, mentioning the transporter incident, the battle with the Columbus, and the Enterprise's destruction. Picard noted that the man across the table smiled slightly when he mentioned the jedi. When he had finished, Picard sat back in his chair, waiting for the interrogator to make the next move.

After a long pause, the man spoke. "You realize that if any of what you have just told me is a lie, I will begin executing your crew?" This statement alarmed Picard to the extreme. Even after their unnecessarily violent capture, the Captain had not expected such blunt brutality from people who were obviously so advanced. "What I have told you is completely true. My crew and I did not know we were infringing on Imperial space. We only wish to return to our own dimensional plane," Picard replied, hiding the consternation in his voice. The officer considered this. "You mentioned jedi. Where are they now?" Picard was about to respond that they had accompanied commander Riker on his mission to find help when something in the imperial's tone triggered a piece of his memory. During one of the information exchanges aboard the Enterprise, Jacen had mentioned that most of the Jedi had been wiped out during a massive political upheaval and an organization known as the Galactic Empire had instituted a campaign of genocide to wipe out the rest, and even though they were in Jacen's past, it had already been evidenced that the wormhole could transport through both space and time. Those imperials and his captors must be one in the same, and they could not be trusted. From the way Jacen had described them, he had already said too much. "The jedi died trying to help some of my crew off the ship. It detonated before they could escape," he lied. A grin split the officer's face. "You're lying." He rose and motioned to his guards to grab Picard. "I will enjoy getting the information I seek out of you Picard. You look to be a worthy opponent." Before Picard could protest, the stormtroopers jerked him out of his seat. "Take him to Detention Block Two. Implement information extraction procedure theta." The officer smiled again, and left the room, leaving Picard only seconds to mull over what he had just done before the butt of a blaster rifle slammed into his head and blackness slid over his eyes.

Chapter Fourteen

The stormtrooper corporal and his blaster arm lay separated on the ground beneath a hail of energy discharges. Next to him, a heavy table stood on its side, blaster marks turning its thick surface black. The remained of the imperial patrol was hunkered behind a nearby drink dispenser, concentrating fire on the overturned table as throngs of frightened civilians ran past them, clogging the cantina's exit in a desperate attempt to get out of the crossfire.

"Any ideas?" Riker asked as a crimson bolt slammed into the wall next to him. Next to him, Jossa, Jacen and Aayla were crouching in-between the table and the ferrocrete wall of the cantina. Jossa squeezed a shot off from her phaser, which had been concealed in her overalls, and quickly withdrew as the area where her hand had been half a second before was filled with blaster fire. "We need a way out of her before they bring reinforcements," she said through gritted teeth. The two jedi crouched, lightsabers in hand, waiting for a pause in the fire. "I think we can take them out, there are only five after all," Aayla commented. Jacen shook his head, "No, its too risky. Even if we managed it, their reinforcements would have the front door covered before we could leave."

"Then how do you propose we get out?"

Jacen glanced at the gritty wall and then shuffled towards it. "Keep them off me for a moment." To Riker's surprise, Jacen plunged his blue blade into the wall. With only minimal effort, he slowly drew a semicircle of molten rock from the walls base. Then he kicked at the slab and it slid outward. "A way out," he said blandly. Riker grinned at him and then he motioned Jossa towards the new, rolling out after her. Jacen then glanced at Aayla as she deflected a stray bolt. "Coming?" The Twi'lek warrior was about to say something sarcastic when a concentrated volley of fire blasted a hole through the edge of the table. "Well, lets go," is all she said as she ducked through opening, Jacen close behind.

The group emerged into a dimly light alley, faintly illuminated by the dusk sky. Jacen took a quick look around and pointed away from the main street. "They'll have more patrols along the main street. Where going to have to make it back to the ship along an alternate route." As Jacen started to hurry down the narrow alley, Riker placed a hand on his shoulder. "We haven't found a pilot yet who can pick up the rest of the crew. We can't leave until we found one," he said firmly. Jacen turned to face him. "With all due respect commander, we are wanted on this planet now, and the Empire won't stop until Aayla and I are captured or killed," he sighed. "At the very least, we have to get out of the immediate area." Riker stared at him for a quick moment and then nodded resignedly. "Jossa, can you raise commander Data on the com?" Riker asked, as the group ran down the side street. Before the officer could tap her badge, Aayla stopped her. "No. They might be able to track the signal. We just have to hope they figure out something's wrong."

"The information net in this city is really quite amazing. From what I can tell, this facility serves transports from all over the galaxy, and this is only a minor trade route. I wonder how many centuries it's taken this civilization to build up to this level?" Master Chief, who was leaning, cross-armed next to the shuttle's access door, simply nodded. He had been listing to Cortana's narrated journey through the communications network of Starlane city for nearly an hour, and her voice was beginning to form background noise. Further in the shuttle, Worf and his security man waited restlessly and Data studied the layout of the city through passive sensor scans to pass the time. Suddenly the drawl of Cortana's voice over the Chief's helmet stopped. He perked up. "What is it Cortana?"

"I'm not sure. There was just a dramatic increase in unencrypted general frequency calls through the broadcast net. Looks like military or police activity." The Chief uncrossed his arms. "Can you translate it?" Cortana paused for a moment. "I downloaded the Federation Universal translator algorithms and I think they can be applied, hold on." After a moment, the voice of a man came over the speaker, the ships speaker the Chief noted, so all aboard could hear. "…In sector four, area five. Reports are four targets, armed. Possible class J's. Highest priority, recommend all available patrols converge." The transmission cut out. Master Chief walked back into the main chamber, where the others were now assembled. "Could they be tracking the commander?" Worf asked. "Whoever it is, they're very hot properties," Cortana responded. "The way I'm reading this, every security force and military unit on the planet is responding." Data frowned. "Do the transmissions name the military organization?" he asked. "Yes, they refer to the Galactic Empire I believe," she responded, puzzled. "Why do you ask?" Without answering, Data turned and headed for the cockpit. Puzzled by the android's unusual behavior, the Chief followed him. Data took the helm and began initiating the drive systems. "Why are you powering up the ship Lieutenant Commander?"

Data continued entering commands, and the engines thrummed to life beneath their feet. "I recalled information that Jacen Solo divulged during one of the Captain's cultural exchanges. He mentioned a genocidal organization seizing control of the galaxy and implementing a campaign to eradicate the Jedi Order. Although they were defeated by Jacen's time, it is possible that the wormhole transported us into the past. If this is true, then Commander Riker's team is in a great risk of being detained, and it is highly likely they are being pursued right now." The Chief took the revelation in stride and immediately opened up the com to the AI construct. "Cortana, begin tracing those imperial signals. We need to follow them." "On it," she replied, and delved back into the communication network.

Master Chief was running to the rear hatch to seal it when Cortana suddenly spoke again. "Chief, I think we have a problem. It looks like the imperials have tracked Commander Riker's team back here to this docking bay. We don't have much time until…" A blaster bolt impacting the side of the shuttlecraft silenced her. "We've got company." By the time the Spartan reached the entry hatch, stormtroopers were pouring out of the docking bay's door and hosing the small craft with laser fire. In a single fluid motion the Chief swung his assault rifle of his shoulder and into his armored hands. He pulsed the trigger twice into the nearest white-armored soldier, and bullets slammed into the target's head, knocking him to the ground. As the grim helmet rolled off, the Chief caught a glimpse of a human face and felt a momentary pang of guilt. He didn't enjoy killing, and having to fight humans made it worse, but as a red bolt particle beam was absorbed by his shields, decades of military training kicked in and he opened fire again. This volley hit another trooper square in the chest, but to the Chief's surprise, he only staggered slightly under the impact, the flattened bullets falling to the ground. It took another four rounds perfectly aimed at the spot to pierce the white armor and send the human to the ground. In the face of such resistance, Master Chief switched his tactics, instead firing on the unarmored black joint sections of the troopers. After expending a clip, the Chief dove behind the safety of the shuttle hull, and slapped the hatch close control. The metal door slowly closed and sealed shut with a hiss, but the soldier could still hear blaster fire impacting the hull.

He looked up to see Worf and Maxwell standing in the small hallway, phaser rifles in hand. "I really don't think you want to go out there," the Chief commented, his shield indicator slowly recharging. Before Worf could respond, the floor beneath them bucked and the shuttle's repulsors came online. The three hurried back to the front of the ship as it began to rise from the chaotic landing pad. They had almost made it to the cockpit when an explosion rocked the vessel. Worf stumbled into the cockpit in time to see a flash of light and feel another explosion. "What was that?" Beside him, Data was working the controls, a simulated look of deep concentration on his face. "As soon as we exited the docking facility, a squadron of small fighter craft opened fire on the Runabout. We sustained damage be for I was able to raise shields." Through the viewport, Worf could make out several small vehicles make wide banking turns over the cityscape. "They are making another attack run," Data commented, increasing power to the shields. The three small craft plunged towards them, spewing green fire. They were H-shaped craft, with small cockpits mounted between two hexagonal wings. The shuttle shook as more laser fire impacted the shields and Data began to roll the ship to evade them.

"Is this ship armed?" Master Chief asked, looking over the android's shoulder. "Negative. The Runabout is only equipped with a class D shield generator," Data responded. "That system is down to sixty percent." Then Cortana provided more bad news. "I am picking up reports that an imperial cruiser has just entered the system and is dispatching its own fighters. Evidently we are a high priority on their too kill list." This statement was compounded by yet another explosion, shaking the shuttle's shields further. "At this rate, I don't think there will be anything left of us by the time they get here."

The shuttle wove through and spun through traffic lanes and around the city's few skyscrapers, but the pursuing ships were far faster and more maneuverable. They chipped away at the fleeing craft's shields blast by blast until a pair of emerald beams penetrated the shimmering barrier; sending the craft spinning, smoke pouring from ruptured hull. Chunks of carbonized metal began to sheer of and the craft slowly tilted towards the jumbled slums of the city below. As its altitude began to decline, all but one of the Tie Fighter pilots broke off, their job done. The final one however, caught up in the thrill of battle, continued pouring flame into the burning hulk even as it began to skim the building tops. Then suddenly wit one last burst from the shuttle's smoking nacelles, it stopped short, the force of the sudden change in velocity shearing of one the right engine and sending it spinning into the urban sprawl. The remained of the ship however tumbled backwards, its remaining engine sputtering as the last of its energy drained. The last thing the pilot of the ambitious Tie Fighter ever saw was the burning cockpit of his prey ramming through his viewscreen.

"No!" Riker mouthed as the fused remnants of the two combatants fell into the city below. Beside him Aleen Jossa also stared skyward, her mouth gaping in horror. The two jedi inclined their heads to honor those aboard who had fallen, and Jacen couldn't help but feel that their deaths were on his shoulders. Aayla patted his back soothingly, as if reading his thoughts. "Its not your fault Jacen, not our fault. There was no way to know that the Empire would be here, that they would come after us." Jacen nodded slowly, but there was still a cold feeling in his heart. Aayla sighed and turned to Riker, who was still staring into the sky in shock. "There's nothing we can do for them now," she said softly. "We can't stay here anymore, the patrols are right behind us." Riker looked at her in cold fury. He had just lost two of his best men, his friends. Visions of Data and Worf flashed before his eyes, Data's quest for humanity that would never be completed, Worf's constant struggle with his heritage, the weekly poker games that they had shared. But then he imagined Worf's annoyance at their lack of action and he straightened up. "Lets move out. Now finding a transport is all the more important." The Commander saw that Aleen still stood motionless and he remembered that she had lost a comrade as well. However, the security officer was strong, and when she felt the gazes of the others on her, she tightened her grip on her phaser and gave a slight nod to Riker. "I'm ready sir." And so the group continued their rapid route down the back alleyways, demoralized, but not beaten.

Chapter Fifteen

"By the gods, what an ache." That was the Arbiter's first thought as the effects of multiple stun blasts wore off and he regained consciousness. Slowly, he brought a large hand up to his head to make sure it was still there, and then pushed himself to a sitting position. He then open and closed his jaws, clearing the saliva that had gathered in them. After the uncomfortable groggy sensation in his brain passed, he experimentally opened one eye, and then the other. As his vision cleared, a small, darkly light room came into view. The small blockish chamber was totally black colored and not tall enough for the elite to stand up fully. It was empty save for him and two low benches that jutted from each wall. The Arbiter was about to rise when he noticed that the chamber was not totally Empty. Across from him, squeezed into the furthest corner more tightly than he would have believed possible, was a slightly shivering human. He was dressed in the same bright uniform that those aboard the lost human vessel had been draped. A fairly tall man, which made his attempt to hide all the more remarkable, the man had brownish hair and a slightly mousy face, although the Arbiter had never been good at telling any humans apart by their faces.

"Tell me what has occurred," he rumbled in slightly accented English. The human's eyes widened and he issued a small squeak. For a moment the Arbiter was puzzled by this response, and then he remembered how much more physically impressive his kind were than the humans. The Arbiter sighed and spoke as gently as he could. "I do not wish to harm you human, I simply require knowledge of what this place is and how we came to it." The human looked at him for a long while, evidently weighing the consequences of silence or conversation, and then stammered, "A-after the ship took us aboard, they started herding us into these cells. We've been in here for hours. I d-don't know anything else." The Arbiter took this in and then began checking his person. Their captors had stripped him of most of his armors, as well as the translator he had been given and the few personal effects warriors carried. The elite then rose, having to stoop slightly to stand, and proceeded to the cell's door. It was an opaque black plate set in the wall several centimeters off the ground, and totally solid. He rapped on it several times, and only gleaning a dull thud of flesh on metal, returned to his bench.

The human was still curled up in the corner, but he began to eye the Arbiter with more curiosity than fear. The Arbiter was not particularly predisposed to make conversation with one of his species, or of any for that matter, but he would need the being's help if he had any hope of escaping yet another prison. "What is your name human?" he asked. The man gulped, "Lieutenant Reginald Barclay." Humans have such short and incongruous names, the Arbiter mused, unlike the majestic, flowing names of his people. That memory suddenly caused the Arbiter to twinge as he recalled that his dishonor meant he could never use his given name again. "You may refer to me as the Arbiter."

In the tiny cell, the passage of time was impossible to determine, but the Arbiter supposed he and the jittery human Barclay sat in near silence for several hours, with nothing to do but look at each other suspiciously. Neither was particularly inclined towards conversation and so the elite took up rapping the prison's solid walls incessantly, searching for a weakness he might exploit. As the warrior banged on the doorplate for the forty-ninth time, Barclay finally spoke up, his voice irritated and distraught. "It's not working you know. There's no way out of here, not until they come and drag us off some place worse." The elite whirled around and stared at the comparatively tiny human coldly. Barclay emitted a small squeak, and scrunched back into the wall. Sighing imperceptibly, the Arbiter turned back to his work, now sure he disliked the timid and cowardly being.

As he raised his tri-digit knuckle to strike the impassible barrier again, it opened suddenly with a puff of hydraulics. Beyond it was revealed a narrow, black walled hallway light by a mild orange glow. The more unwelcome sight was a trio of heavily armed stormtroopers standing in it, their weapons pointing at his unarmored chest. For a moment, the Arbiter considered springing upon them like a raw recruit, disregarding whatever other dangers might be in the passage beyond. However, years of battlefield experience had taught him to be cautious and only act rashly when absolutely necessary. So the warrior stepped backwards into the cell, his stance one of wary submission. The lead trooper motioned with his rifle, "You two are being transferred. Lets go." The Arbiter stepped slowly into the hall, and the other two troopers quickly placed a metal restraint band around his wrists. The warrior however was already sizing up his surroundings. They were in the middle of a long, narrow hallway, with dozens of solid cell doors placed on either wall. At the end of the passage, the elite could make out an opening to a larger room populated by several distant figures. A difficult situation, but he would find a way to escape his captors, there was always a way if one looked hard enough.

Reginald Barclay however was not so willing to comply with his jailers, and the lead soldier had to pry the frightened Lieutenant out of the small chamber with considerable effort. When Barclay was finally dislodged, shackled, and pushed into line with the elite, the stormtroopers began to head them down the hallway. The group exited into the security chamber, where three black clad unarmored humans worked at computer terminals. They glanced up at them and eyed the Arbiter suspiciously, but the turbolift doors set in the wall opened, and the group walked in. In the confined space, the Arbiter again considered attacking the troopers, but there was no way to know where or to what the transport would open to, so he waited motionless. Beside him, Barclay stood silently, drenched in a cold sweat, his eyes twitching back and forth. Again the Arbiter sighed silently, sure that the human would be a severe liability in a fight.

The lift doors slid open at last, and they stepped out into another passageway, this one brightly light and gray in hue. As the prisoners were marched down it's broad length, they passed numerous human crewmembers, mostly men dressed in drab browns and grays. Intermittently, white armored soldiers and black naval guards stood at intersections and grouped into patrols. With this level of security around, escape would be all but impossible, but the elite remained resolute. There would be a way, he just had to wait. Finally, their guards herded them down a side passage and into a room marked with boxy lettering the Arbiter could not read.

To the warrior's great surprise, the room he found himself in was not another cell or an interrogation chamber, but what appeared to be a barracks of some sort. It was a long room, one wall lined with low sleeping pads and the other a row of tall lockers, and at the far end was what appeared to be a small mess hall and shower station. The only occupant of the room was a lone trooper, naked from the waist up, sitting on a low bench and shedding his armor. When he saw them enter, the soldier, a rough looking man with short black hair, stood up in alarm. "You can't take them in here, it's a restricted area! Are you brain-dead?" he shouted, pointing a finger at the stormtrooper lead, who was now approaching the off duty man. "Sorry sir, but I thought I might need your clearance on this transfer," the armored man supplicated as the irate soldier reached for his Blastech rifle. He cocked his head suspiciously. "I don't recognize your voice. What is your operating number?" The rifle was swinging slowly towards the trooper. "Of course sir, I'll show you my number, but you really ought to see this first," said the targeted soldier. Then, before the other man could react, the butt of the Stormtrooper's gun knifed into his unarmored neck, sending him sprawling across a bed pad, quite unconscious.

The Arbiter and Barclay stood in astonished silence as the other two troopers undid their restraints. The lead stormtrooper motioned for the others to hide the prone form lying behind him and then moved towards the two newly freed prisoners. He pulled off the white helmet to reveal a middle-aged man, his head shaven save for a small ponytail. From his utility belt he withdrew a small metal disk, a Fedoration translator, and tossed it to Barclay. "Look, I'll cut right to the chase. Me and my men are from the Rebel Alliance and were here to get you and your buds of this fierkirk of a ship," he said planting his gloved hands on his hips. "I can't get into the specifics right now, but all I need you to do is help us get that captain of yours outta here." The Arbiter looked at the human suspiciously, this intervention was too convenient. "Why should I aid you? Why do you wish to help us?" The man sighed exasperatedly. "Look, you guys have two choices; either you help us and we maybe all get out of here, or I stun you both, say you escaped, and leave the lot of you here 'till they send the IT-droids to scramble your brains." Upon hearing this, Barclay suddenly stepped forward. "Oh, I'm sure we can assist you in the escape attempt," he said quickly, looking pleadingly at the Arbiter. For the third time since meeting him, the elite sighed, irritated by his jittery behavior. Still, from the looks of the security onboard the ship that held them, escape would be virtually impossible without the rebel's aide.

"Very well, but be warned. If I suspect a betrayal, you will join your gods before you can mutter a prayer." The rebel glared at the warrior for a moment, and then grunted a laugh. "I don't have any gods, and if I did, I sure as heck wouldn't be praying to 'em before I tasted space." Despite the human's crude mannerisms and swagger, the Arbiter could feel that there was more to him than met the eye. The man walked over to a locker and took out a large, bulky sack, which he tossed to the Arbiter. "We managed to swipe some of your gear from the security room." The Arbiter peered into the bag and was gratified to see his silver armor in it, as well as the small pouch that contained various energy cells, his optical magnifier, and a few other items. "Names Truul by the way, Truul Besteen." The Arbiter nodded in thanks and began to replace his body armor, suddenly eager now that a chance for action presented itself.

By this time, the other rebels had returned from hiding the body and were standing at lose attention by the exit. One of them pointed at Barclay, who was trying to stay out of everyone's way. "Hey sir, what about him?" Truul regarded the out of place engineer speculatively. "Well, we can't leave him here. Suit him up." At this Barclay looked up, pointing at himself nervously. "Suit me… up?"

Several decks above the armory, through thousands of tons of metal and machinery, Dr. Fillus Hykar examined his subject eagerly. He stood in one of the Torrent's numerous sickbays, a large hypodermic cutting laser in his hand. The Doctor enjoyed his work, and patients had been few since he had been assigned to the Torrent, but today that had changed. Before him lay an alien unlike any he had seen before, taken from the escape pods that the Captain had recovered. The creature was over two meters tall, covered in gray scaly skin, and remarkably, seemed to posses no mouth or other communication orifice. However, what intrigued Hykar the most were the anomalous brain readings he was picking up from the subject, who had been unconscious since its discovery. This excited him because with the kinds of readings he was getting appeared to indicate telepathy, and there were very few telepaths left in the galaxy. During the beginnings of his New Order, the Emperor had ordered the expulsion or execution of all who might oppose him, and that included mind readers. That particular purge had been very successful, and of the few who existed before the Empire, almost none remained. The chance to study a living one in person was more than the professional could have hoped for.

Technically, he had been ordered to simply revive the creature so it could be interrogated, but certain orders could be bypassed with a little skill. Studying neural pathways while the subject brain was intact inside a host was extremely tedious, and besides, he could simply say the subject suffered an irreparable stroke during revival. No one on the ship had the expertise to contradict him. He motioned for a medical droid to come over, "Prep for vivisection, complete nervous system extraction." The droid responded in the affirmative and walked over to the odd, flattish head of the subject, medical instruments outstretched. The doctor then activated a sterile field over the table and began to adjust the setting on his laser. "Begin recording: Subject 003 ready for operation. Procedure will begin with incision at the ancillary cranial lobe," he stated as the droid recorded. Dr. Hykar rubbed his hands together in anticipation and then pointed the small device at the prone form's head, his hands close to the gray skin. He found the spot he was looking for, a small groove in the side of the head and his finger moved towards the triggering stud.

The subject's huge black eyes flashed open.

Chapter Sixteen

"I can't see in this thing," Barclay complained as the group of infiltrators and escapees rode the turbolift that adjoined the crew quarters. "Get used to it," said one of the disguised rebels brusquely. "We've had to wear these things for weeks." Barclay muttered something resentful and twisted his white helmet around, trying to match it's imaging system with his eyes. "Cut the chatter you two, were almost to our stop," Truul ordered. As he said this, the lift doors slid opened and the group stepped into an empty hall. They formed a facsimile of a guard position around the Arbiter, still feigning his capture, although the restraints on his wrists were unfastened. The ruse might fool the average passerby, but if anyone decided to check them out, the plan would quickly degenerate into a running blaster run to the detention area that the Captain and Command crew were being held in.

When they reached an intersection, Truul stopped them, looked around quickly to make sure that the halls were empty, and turned. "All right, the secondary bay is down that corridor. Charen, take the Lieutenant, and make sure he stays out of trouble. Provide the docking controllers with the order codes I found and get a shuttle ready. And do it quick, things will start getting pretty hot around here in a few minutes." One of the false troopers nodded and grabbed Barclay's shoulder, "Come on, and try to keep yourself quiet." The two hurried off, Barclay looking bewildered even in his obscuring armor.

As the troopers disappeared, the Arbiter whispered to the rebel leader. "And what do you propose that we do now? Even if they ready a transport, how will we retrieve Picard and the others?" Beneath his mask, Truul grinned. "We walk in and take 'em."

The path to the main detention facility was short and relatively clear, and the would-be rescuers only had to resort to their prison transfer guise twice, and they drew little attention. However, as the main cellblock grew nearer, the security increased significantly. Standing guard over the wide reinforced doors were two pairs of stormtroopers at stiff attention. As Truul approached, they trained their blasters on him. "What is your business here soldier?" one of them asked sternly. Truul snapped a quick salute. "TK 2239 sir. I'm under orders to transport this prisoner from ancillary detention facility delta." The questioning stormtrooper moved closer, his concealed eyes sizing up the bluish giant behind TK. "I wasn't informed of any transfers today. Who authorized this?" Truul was about to spout the phony story he had come up for just this eventuality when the Arbiter leapt into action. He pulled his wrists apart, and the unlocked binders slipped off easily. Even before the manacles hit the floor, the elite had slammed his fist into the stormtrooper's gut, sending him careening into the nearby bulkhead, unconscious. Truul and the other rebel then opened up on the remaining troopers, who were hastily aiming their blasters, shocked by the sudden turn of events. They only managed a few wild shots before crimson blasts had perforated their armor and sent them to the floor. Side stepping the bodies, the second rebel hurried over to the door panel. He rapidly tapped in a few commands and then slumped slightly in relief. "The blast door isn't sealed. The hatch must be soundproof," he informed the others. Rather than be grateful however, Truul shook his head angrily. "Doesn't matter. I'd planned on getting in their and cutting off the power to their comms before we opened up, but now will have to go in there blasting, and they'll have plenty off time to tell the whole blazing ship were." He shot a dirty look at the Arbiter, although his helmet blocked the gesture from view. "Thought you said you were a tactician." The Arbiter ignored the insult. "You and I both know full well that that soldier would have seen through your rouse. In any event, there may still yet be a way to salvage this situation. My armor employs a limited stealth system, and I may be able to eliminate most of the guards in there before they can raise the alert." Truul looked up at the Arbiter's face in surprise. "Damn soldier, why didn't you tell me that before? Would have made this mess a whole lot simpler."

The cellblock door slid open, and the men in the security room looked up. There were five of them; two trim officers standing at observation monitors, a stormtrooper Lieutenant, and two lightly armored naval personnel. Upon seeing that the hall beyond the doors was empty, the quiet conversation the two crewmen were having ceased. One of them slowly reached for a pistol mounted to the underside of his terminal and called out, "What's going on out there?" The stormtrooper officer standing nearby tapped into his helmet transceiver. After a moment he shook his head. "No response from my men sir." Now the others in the room were drawing their weapons. Suddenly, from behind them, one of the naval troopers let out a cry, and the others wheeled around. "What the…" Over the crumpled body of the unfortunate man was a shimmering specter, barely visible next the room's dark walls. Before any could fire on the liquid form, a jet of angular blue fire erupted in the middle of the air. The Covenant plasma sword, mark of status and rank among the Elites, shown brightly, pouring forth from the hilt held in the Arbiter's clutched fist. The massive wedge of flame leapt forth, scything through the other naval soldier like he was paper. The last stormtrooper opened fire, but at that close range, the specter deftly dodged the burning shots, and plunged his sparking blade into the attacker. As the trooper collapsed, one of the crewmen managed to get of a shot from his pistol, but in his panic he missed the shadowy form and instead hit one of the room's security turrets, melting its firing chamber. Just then, the rebels rushed in, blasting the other ceiling turret and sending the pistol-wielding officer to the ground. The other officer backed away from the carnage slowly, fumbling blindly for a panic alarm switch. The Arbiter stalked toward him, his stealth field melting away. Upon seeing him in the light, in all his terrible and majestic glory, the blue of his blade glinting of silver armor and a fire in his eyes, the officer collapsed to the deck plate in terror. The warrior raised his weapon to deliver the final blow, but instead he rapped the human on the side of the skull with his free fist, knocking him out. Any other of his kind would have gloried in the senseless slaughter of a human being, fueled by blood lust and blind fanaticism, but the Arbiter was passed that. He fought to win, not glory in the death of his foes.

The two disguised rebels rushed up to him. "Couldn't have done it better myself," Truul said, looking around the body strewn floor. "We could use you in the alliance son." The other rebel pulled an officer of his control terminal and entered a few commands. "The command crew is being held in the west subsection," he said, gesturing for a side door. "Picard is in the main interrogation chamber, just down the main hallway. Truul nodded. "Alright, try to round up as many of the crew as you can find and give 'em weapons. Getting out of here isn't going to be as easy as getting in." The rebel hefted his rifle and headed for the nearby door, wearily watching out for surviving imperials. Then Truul gestured down the long hall that opened from directly behind the control room, and the two warriors moved out, plasma sword still burning in the Arbiter's hand.

The two rushed down the hallway, bypassing the cells that lined the halls in favor of the door at the very end. They flanked the entryway, and when the Arbiter nodded, Truul slapped the door's control pad. The barrier slid open, and the two swung inside. The room beyond was small and spartan, dominated by a single large metal table at its center. Lying on this table lay Captain Picard, bruised and cut, his once clean uniform ripped and stained from sweat. Above him hovered a large round droid studded with all manner of sensor devices and syringes, one of the empire's infamous IT-O interrogation droids. Beside Picard stood a tall officer, dressed in a crisp brown uniform, who was evidently interrogating him. He stooped in mid sentence and glanced towards the opened door, no doubt expecting one of the stormtroopers who lay in the hall. Seeing instead the towering Arbiter and a trooper with his blaster pointing towards him, the man stepped back, momentarily confused. Then realization dawned on him. "Escaping from the Torrent's detention facilities is quite a feat. You must be both very competent warriors." Rather than respond to the obvious stalling tactic, Truul turned his blaster on the floating droid, which was making for a wall comm panel. He fired several shots into the orb and it clattered to the ground in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. The Arbiter then rounded the room's central table towards Picard, his rifle still leveled at the officer. "You'll never make it out you know. If a single crewman or monitor spots you, the ship will lock down and you will be killed. It would be better to surrender now, the Empire is lenient to those who are compliant," the officer ventured, his hands raised disarmingly. Truul set about undoing the restraints that held the semi-conscious Captain to the platform. "I think we'll take our chances impy," he said, not glancing up. When the man on the table was freed of the bonds, Truul raised him to a sitting position. "Can you walk?" he asked, looking at the Captain's bruised face through the helmet's holo imaging system. Picard gazed at the armored figure holding him up wearily, only making out a vague silhouette. He tried to mumble something, but the effort was too much. Truul shook his head. "He's drugged, someone will have ta carry him out." At this, the Arbiter moved to the table and began to gently lift the human on to his left shoulder. Meanwhile, Truul had once again rounded the table and was gesturing for the officer to move into a corner. "You'll pay for this," the imperial said coldly, his hands on his head. As he backed towards the wall, the officer's gaze drifted to the now unguarded doorway, and a grin drifted across his face. "Sooner than you think."

For a moment, Truul was about to ask the man what exactly he meant by that, but then he heard a click from behind him. Whirling around, he came face-to-face three heavily armed naval troopers standing in the doorway; their weapons trained on the rebel and the now encumbered elite. "Drop your weapons!" one of them barked, the opaque blast shield of his helmet obscuring his face. "Put down the prisoner and back towards the wall or we will open fire!" Truul looked at the squad in alarm and began to back away from them, trying to place the imperial officer in the line of fire. "This is your last warning, drop your weapons now!" the soldier boomed. The rebel was deciding whether or not to risk attacking when one of the rear soldiers called out in alarm and disappeared beyond the door way. The other two broke they're concentration for a moment, all the time Truul needed. He fired a blast into the lead trooper's unarmored body and then dove behind the relative cover of the interrogation platform. Also seizing the initiative, the Arbiter turned his back to the remaining soldiers to shield the prone human he bore with his shielded armor.

However, the expected retaliation didn't come. From the hallway was echoed the sounds of shouting and blaster fire, ending with two faint clunks, bodies dropping to the floor. Behind his mask, Truul grinned. "Looks like the cavalry has arrived." He rose quickly and spotted the again outnumbered officer making for the comm panel. A blue stun blast issued from his E-11 and the man tumbled to the floor, polarizing energy coursing over him. "And stay down," Truul mumbled, and then headed towards the exit, the Arbiter close behind.

They ran out into the passageway and past the imperial bodies until they came to the source of the timely assistance; the other rebel had returned, and with him gathered in the security room were seven others, all dressed in colorful uniforms like the one Barclay had been wearing. One of them noticed them the Captain, still slung on the Arbiter's shoulder. "The Captain! Is he alive?" the man asked urgently. Truul nodded hurriedly. "Just out of it. Now c'mon, I assume all of you want to get outta here alive? The Fedoration officer who had spoken before, a dark-skinned man dressed in a yellow tunic and wearing an odd-looking visor over his eyes nodded. "Do you have a way out of here?" Truul nodded. "My other man and another of yours are requisitioning a shuttle as we speak, but we need to get out of here now, or were never leaving, he said urgently, suddenly remembering the troopers that lay out in the hall. Truul was about to direct them towards the door when another officer spoke, a pretty longhaired woman. "What about the others, are you getting them out as well?" she asked anxiously. The rebel paused with a sigh. Even from the limited information he had seen on these people, he suspected they would care more for the lives of others than their own. "Look miss," he said, turning to face her. "There are only three infiltrators, and all we could risk freeing is this cell block. I'm sorry about the others, but we don't have time or men. We wouldn't be freeing even you if I didn't figure you had something to offer the Alliance, and I'm not going to risk losing you lot." The woman looked back at him coldly. "So that's it. Your just doing this to fit your needs, you don't care about any of us." Truul shook his head slowly. These people couldn't imagine what the rebellion had to do to survive, nor could they. He turned and walked towards the soundproof blast doors. "I'm getting of this blasted ship, and I'm taking anyone who wants to do come. The rest of you can try and get the others, but you'll be gunned down or recaptured before you make it off this deck," he called back as the two other rebels, along with the Arbiter and his burden moved up along side him.

Geordi Laforge, ranking officer among the group put a consoling hand on Deanna's shoulder as the rescuers made opened the blast door and moved cautiously out into the long hallway. "He's right, we don't have much choice. Better to get out of here and have a chance of rescuing the rest of the crew than staying here," he said softly. The others knew that this was the truth as well, and agreed quietly. Along with Geordi and Deanna stood in varying states of exhaustion and fear Dr. Crusher, two of her nurses, the Vulcan Lieutenant Tolpak and a human ensign by the name of Mendez. It suddenly occurred to Geordi that none of them had family that had been captured, and how much harder it would have been to abandon the others if there had. It would already be too hard. From the hall, Truul called out. "Last chance, were moving out now." Geordi sighed, resigned to his grim duty. "All right, lets move out."

The trek to the docking bay was fairly short, and would have taken only a few minutes under good conditions, but of course it wasn't a good situation. Less than a minute after they departed the detention area, alert klaxons started going off. "If we don't speed it up, were gonna have company real quick!" Truul shouted back at his charges. Almost as soon as the words left his lips, they rounded a corner and ran straight into a pair of stormtroopers. The troopers were taken by surprise and hesitated a moment, giving the rebels time to pick them off before they could return fire or call for assistance, but it served as a reminder of the severity of the situation. "Kick up the hyperdrives people, there are bound to be more of 'em," Truul called as he ran.

The rest of the short journey was a running firefight. They ran into several more squads of troopers and a few unlucky crewmen, and some cross fire lightly wounded Ensign Mendez, but they escaped each engagement relatively unscathed. This was too easy, the Arbiter thought, they could have easily sealed them in or sent a major contingent of troopers, but it seemed as though the hallways were simply being cleared, almost as if those in command wanted them to reach the docking bay. The idea passed through Truul's mind as well, but there was nothing for it, they had to make it to the docking bay. He just hoped to hell that Barclay and Charen had commandeered that shuttle.

Reginald Barclay was extremely uncomfortable. Although it had been only fifteen minutes since Charen had ordered Barclay to hide in the shadow of their target ship, a large Lambda class shuttle, to the engineer jittery engineer it felt like an eternity. After giving Barclay the command codes to the shuttle, the rebel soldier had then drifted off into the bustling crowds of technicians, soldiers, and pilots without giving a reason, simply telling him to stay put until he caught sight of the returning rescue team. Barclay was perfectly happy to be out of the action, but he was very afraid of being detected and imprisoned again, so he had drifted farther and farther under the cover of the shuttle that he was now crouched under it's extended boarding ramp, the leg sections of his ill-fitting stormtrooper armor driving into his stomach. He dared not move or stretch for fear of someone noticing him. He was sure he couldn't talk his way out if a tech found a stormtrooper without any identification number or knowledge of imperial regulations hiding under the ramp of a shuttle. So he instead was forced to watch the feet of crewmen going about their business, unaware that there was an unwanted interloper hiding mere meters away.

The Lieutenant was seriously considering removing his helmet to get a fresh breath of air when the air rang with warning signals. Barclay jumped nervously and hit his head hard on the hull of the Lambda. We waited in miserable silence, waiting for the sound of approaching feet, and for a gauntleted hand to reach under and pull him out of his hiding spot, but no such feet came. Instead, the traffic before him decreased dramatically, reducing to only a few hurried footfalls. Then he heard the sound of blaster fire, coming closer. Working up some nerve, Barclay moved out from under the landing ramp just enough to get a view of the chamber. The secondary docking bay was much smaller than main bay through which the Enterprise's crew had been captured, but it was still enormous. Large blast doors and high observation windows studded the high, gray walls, and a variety of hardware, including defensive machinery, tractor beam projectors, and even a extensive system of catwalks on which the star destroyer's Tie fighters were docked crowded the ceiling, which as five stories high in some places. Coming out of one of the blast doors was a small, disorderly group, some of whom where firing shots down the broad hallway from whence they had come.

Barclay was about to scramble aboard the shuttle when everything went wrong. Behind the fleeing group, the blast door slammed shut, and two others snapped open. From them poured more figures, imperial troops, moving to surround the fleeing group. From even his distant hiding spot, Barclay watched one of the bedraggled figures fall to the ground. Barclay watched in desperation, it had been a trap, none of them were going to escape the ship, and they would go back to the cells and rot away or be executed. The engineer was to enthralled in the terrible spectacle to notice one of the ceiling turrets reorient itself, turning towards the battle. He did, however notice it when the cannon fired.

A flash of green light screeched through the docking bay and impacted the deck plate, right in the middle of the imperial formation. For a moment, everyone in the bay stopped moving, momentarily stunned. The second blast shook them out of it. Imperial troops began to scatter, searching for their attacker and diving for cover. The turret continued tracking clusters of soldiers, laser impacts sending out clouds of molten deck plate into the air and hurling soldiers into the air. After suddenly finding themselves free of suppression fire, the group of escapees flew further into the docking bay, and Barclay decided it was time to make an appearance. He jumped from the cover of the shuttle, and then hastily removed his helmet when the front-runners of the group began training their weapons on him. He waved frantically, and then dove behind the boarding ramp again as a stray stormtrooper fired wildly in the direction of his fleeing prey. The group wove their way through flying shrapnel and blaster fire and finally made it to the relative cover of Barclay's Lambda. Truul, his stolen armor now heavily carbon scored, nodded at Barclay. "Do you have the codes?" Barclay nodded breathlessly and shoved a data chip into the rebel's hand. "Then lets get the stang outta here." The survivors piled up the ramp quickly, several cradling wounds.

As the battle raged on outside, Truul jumped into the pilot's chair, entered the access code, and started up the ship's engines. As they thrummed to life, the others hurriedly lowered themselves unto seats to prepare for the takeoff. The Arbiter carefully laid the Captain on the floor, who was still unconscious, but uninjured. As Dr. Crusher began checking his vital signs, the shuttle rose of the ground. The blaster fire from the scattered imperials glanced harmlessly of the shuttle's hull, but the bay's second laser turret, which was activating and orienting itself towards the escaping ship, would not be so irrelevant. Truul watched through the cockpit window as it locked on the rising craft, and braced himself. Then the turret exploded. Green bolts raked the weapon system, as well as a Tie Fighter support pylon, which sent its load to crashing to the floor a dozen meters below. The rogue turret then continued harrying the imperials below, most of who had withdrawn. Breathing a sigh of relief, Truul throttled up to full power and plowed out through the bay's underside exit. The point defense cannons on the underside of the ship opened fire, but they were not adjusted to fire in at their own docking bay, and the shuttle was beyond their optimal range.

Winding around the tracking shots, Truul worked the controls as the other rebel, his helmet still on, checked the ship's navicomputer. "There are coordinates locked in, the," he started. "I don't care if it takes us to Coruscant itself, just get us outta here!" Truul cut him off bluntly as a laser blast impacted the shuttle's shields. "Punching it." For a few seconds the shuttle remained stationary, and the Star Destroyer's weaponry locked and fired, unleashing an inescapable wall of fire. The light of the energy weapons filled the shuttle, but was suddenly dimmed as the shuttle lurched and launched past the barrier of lightspeed, stars blurring into vague lines and finally disappearing into blackness. The inhabitants of the craft breathed a collective sigh of relief. The second rebel tore of his helmet revealing a young, clean-shaven man, not even nineteen. He glanced back into the crew compartment, and then frowned. "Where's Charen?" Barclay, who was slumped on the floor, shook his head. "He left me by the ship and went off somewhere before you got there, he didn't say where," he said glumly.

The man known only as Charen stood alone in a operations chamber on the Torrent, focused on the computer controls in front of him. Beside him lay his discarded helmet and blaster rifle; he knew they wouldn't be needed anymore. On his screen, he targeted imperial after imperial, and when he ran out of moving targets, the turret he controlled opened fire on the Tie Fighters, hanging like ripe fruit on their racks. Behind him, the locked door was sparking, a thin line of melted durasteel drawing a hole in it. There was no way to stop them from coming through, no way to escape, but then he had known that when he had sealed himself in the chamber. Charen fired a few parting shots at a damaged Tie, and then abandoned the controls. Then he reached into a small utility pouch at his side and withdrew a fist–sized metal orb. As the door began to glow with the heat of the cutting torches beyond, Charen polished a smudge on the ball's chrome surface. He sighed, happy. For the first time since joining the hopeless fight against the tyrannical Empire, he felt at rest, sure of himself. He flipped a switch on the orb's side, and it began to beep loudly. Then the rebel wrapped his hand around the thermal detonator and clasped it to his chest. As the beeping increased in speed, and the door began to disintegrate, Charen had no defiant final remark, no brash statement like the heroes would always say in the holo-dramas he had watched in his youth. He felt no satisfaction in the thoughts of those he would kill with the explosive, just a quiet satisfaction in knowing he had saved the lives of those he cared for, his comrades. He closed his eyes, and exhaled deeply, and then a bright flash heralded his peace.

The young rebel slumped in his chair, he had never lost a close friend like Charen before, and it hurt. Truul patted his soldier on the shoulder consolingly. "He did what he had too do son, what I would have done." The hardened soldier then removed his stolen helm, and let his ponytail hang lose, staring reflectively into the blackness of hyperspace. Behind him, Geordi came forward. "So what now?" he asked wearily, trying to forget all those left behind in hostile hands. "Where are you taking us?" Before either rebel could answer, a voice, dark and foreboding came from the rear of the shuttle, "That is something I would like to know as well." Emerging from the furthest storage compartment was a dark shape, one no one aboard had expected.

Chapter Seventeen

"Weapons fire," Riker stopped short, listening to the distant sound. "Who else would they be after? We should check it out." The others stood in the narrow, trash cluttered alleyway panting, glad to take a brief rest. After taking a breath, Aayla shook her head. "No, we should try to avoid any hot spots or imperial activity. It would be dangerous to confront them again unnecessarily. Jacen smiled, glad to see she had calmed down from her previous battle fervor. Still, he had to disagree. "If the imperials are after someone else, then whoever it is might be willing to help us. Enemy of my enemy," he said. Aayla thought this over for a moment. "You have a point." She turned to Jacen and smiled. "Will do it your way." Looking over at her face, Jacen felt a warmth flow into his cheeks, and turned his head in embarrassment.

The four, Riker and Aayla ahead and Jossa and Jacen bring up the rear, moved swiftly through the cluttered back streets in the gathering darkness, growing closer to the sound of battle, which seemed to have increased in intensity. After passing through a particularly narrow space between two cheap apartment complexes, they caught sight of stray blasts of red energy flying into the air beyond a derelict one-story structure. Aayla motioned for them to halt, and then looked around the alley. "I'll check out what's going on down there before we move out," she said, a then leapt seven feet into the air, grabbed a small ledge on the building to their left, and pulled herself up. Riker and Jossa watched her scramble expertly along the ledge in amazement. "Amazing," Riker commenting, looking up at her. Jossa was too amazed by the feat, although she wondered what exactly Riker meant. The commander was a notorious lady's man, and the exotic blue woman was well within his tastes. Jacen too had heard of Riker's appetites, and the thought he grew uncomfortable. Even in the short time they had known each other, Aayla and Jacen had grown fast friends, but was there more. Jacen certainly felt odd around her, a feeling he only felt around Tenel Ka, a fellow knight from Luke's academy, but was it really…

Jacen's train of thought was interrupted as Aayla jumped down in the center of the group, and Jacen sensed both anxiety and excitement from her. "Its them! I don't know how, but they made it out," she said, starting to run towards the direction of the firefight. The others fell into place behind her, confused. "Who did you see?" Riker asked, straining to keep up with the Twi'lek. "The rest of the team, they're alive, and holed up just past this building," she replied, skirting around the corner of the derelict structure. Hearing this, both Fedoration officers brightened up considerably and grabbed their hand phasers. They must have used the emergency transporters to escape before the Runabout exploded, Riker realized, and mentally slapped himself for not thinking of it earlier.

As they rounded a corner, the scene came into view. They were once again on a main street, a wide lane in-between bars and machinery shops, no doubt built for cargo hoversleds. A large contingent of Imperial soldiers, thirty at least, was holding position in a semicircle around a crashed, overturned hover bus that was lying in the middle of the street. The soldiers were clustered behind the cover of various storefronts and parked vehicles, laying fire on the bus's charred frame. "They are behind that," Aayla said, pointing at the bus. As if to prove the point, a small round object flew over the vehicle's side, bouncing to the ground in-between a squad of three stormtroopers who were trying to flank the makeshift barrier. A second later, an explosion threw them of their feet and into a nearby wall as the Frag grenade detonated. Urged on by this sudden attack, the imperials increased their barrage.

"We have to get them out of there before the Imperials can bring in air support," Riker said worriedly as the group looked on from the alley mouth. Jacen searched the embattled street looking for a weakness in the imperial line. Even though their backs were turned to the would-be rescuers, there were too many to attack out right. "There's a entry way they could get through if we could distract the troops for a minute," Jossa said, noting a building not ten meters from the overturned bus. "But we don't have any way to get their attention, at least not without charging into a firing line," Riker replied, rejecting the idea. Jacen however had noticed something interesting. Not far from the possible escape route, a team of stormtroopers was setting up an E-web mounted heavy blaster, evidently to cut off any escape attempts. But maybe it could be used another way. "I've got an idea."

"TK 045602, adjust that gun's swivel shaft. We don't want it freezing up like last time," TK 23345 ordered as his squad readied the mounted gun. To think he had thought today would be just another dreary series of trade inspections and smuggler busts, and now he was getting ready to plow through some dirty rebels. There was almost never any insurgent activity on the out of the way Poloon system. And there were jedi with them no less. Jedi sightings were more and more infrequent, and most believed them to be completely extinct, although were some rumors of a hot shot rebel pilot with force powers who had tried to take down Darth Vader at Bespin. Of course, they were probably just rumors, but if there were jedi on this backwards world, they might be all over the galaxy.

The stormtrooper was watching his men mount the ammo cell on the mobile cannon when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned, expecting some low ranking trooper or tech, and instead saw a beautiful Twi'lek woman standing there. He hesitated, looking over her revealingly dressed form with rising interest, and was about to rattle of a hasty pickup line when her boot smacked into his faceplate. The trooper went spinning into his cohorts, knocking two of them off balance. The other two leapt to their feet, fumbling for their rifles. One took two phaser blasts in the chest and fell to the dusty ground, while the other found himself missing half an arm after firing only two shots at Jacen. The two other conscious troopers scrambled up, but fierce hammer blows to the neck from the Twi'lek jedi quickly dispatched both. The other squads of troopers, who were strung loosely across the street, were taken completely unawares by the surprise attack, and most didn't even realize they had just lost their right flank.

Aleen Jossa stepped up to the control rig of the gun, and when satisfied that she could operate it, turned the contraption on the nearest group of soldiers, fired. Designed to be able to penetrate the armor of light attack air speeders, the E-web's energy rounds easily tore through the small conglomeration of soldiers, thumping satisfyingly every time she fired. The surviving soldiers quickly responded to the new threat and set up a return fire, but the jedi stepped forward, lightsabers ablaze, to intercept the deadly projectiles. As the energy blades twirled, Riker began to shout towards the burned hulk behind which the rest of the team was hiding. For a moment nothing happened, and Riker feared they might not respond, fearing a trap, but then Data's head stuck out, his artificial eyes taking in the situation. Riker motioned frantically towards the entry way into the nearby structure, their only hope of escape. Data looked from Riker to the doorway and back again and then nodded, withdrawing his head back behind the barrier. A moment later, three figures broke out from the bus at a flat run heading towards the appropriate structure. For a moment Riker wondered why there were only three of them instead of the full half of his team, but a blaster bolt clanging into a light post next to him brought more immediate concerns back to mind.

The Commander rapped Jossa on her shoulder and shouted that they had to move out, although he could barely be heard over the thunder of her gun. Aleen fired of a few more volleys to keep the dwindling imperial forces at bay and then began to run towards the safety of the building. Hearing the E-web had stopped firing; the two jedi also began moving quickly towards the door, their lightsabers still deflecting crimson bolts. Riker satisfied they had done all they could, fired a few parting shots, and then made for the door as well.

When the four rescuers dove into the structure, they found Data, Lt. Worf, and Master Chief waiting for them in the darkened hallway beyond. Riker looked over with the android and Klingon with relief. "It's good to see both of you again," he said, patting Data on the shoulder. "Likewise sir," Worf replied, checking the power cell on his phaser rifle. Data nodded, "I am relived to see that you survived commander." Master Chief however, had a more practical consideration than greetings in mind. "Move back," he ordered, pulling the last two grenades from his belt and priming them. "This ought to hold them for a while." He tossed the explosives into the doorway and the group hastily moved into the safety of a side hallway. A moment later, a tremendous double explosion rocked the structure, and the doorway caved in, piling a metric ton of rubble onto the entryway. "That won't last long, we need a way out of here," Aayla commented coolly, looking around. They were at a nexus point of four hallways, all dimly light, and lined with rows of doors. Aayla hoped that whatever lay beyond the entry points would be wise enough to stay put until they had left. "Come on, let's go," she shouted, turning down a side corridor that felt somehow right.

The seven fugitives pelted down the dark walkway, past locked doors and closed windows. When the came to another bend, Aayla directed them down it, and then around another corner. As the winding, seemingly aimless trek lengthened, Worf began to grumble. "How exactly do you know where to guide us?" he asked as Aayla was hammering down a flight of stares. "Just a feeling," she replied, lurching into another side passage at the stairway's foot. "You can find your own way if you want, no ones stopping you." Worf grumbled again, but continued to follow the jedi. After nearly five minutes of winding and weaving, Aayla followed by the others busted out into a deserted back courtyard light by the dimming dusk sky. "I think we lost them, for a while at least," Aayla stated. While the others stopped to catch a breath, Jossa walked up to Data. "Excuse me sir, but were is Maxwell? Didn't he make it off of the Runabout?" Data triggered his facial muscles to depress, a facsimile of a human empathetic gesture. "Security officer Maxwell was struck by a particle beam after we transported of the Runabout and were seeking cover," he said. "His death was immediate and painless." Jossa stared past him for a moment, her eyes out of focus, and then slung her head. She had lost him for the second time that day. "He died well, on his feet and with a phaser in his arms," Worf said consolingly. "A warrior's death." For a Klingon, such a fate was to be hoped for, but somehow it didn't consol the grieving human. They had been close, Riker remembered watching the sad exchange. He felt a loss at losing one under his command too, but he had lost loved one's as well, and knew there was a great difference.

After their brief respite, the group continued the aimless journey through Starlane City's back streets. Interesting that they had not encountered any civilians since the cantina Jacen mused, the city must be under lockdown. That meant finding a pilot would be all the more difficult. He was about to call for them to stop again to discuss their next move when something caught his eye. As the ambient light had dimmed, the street illuminators had flipped switched on, and cast florescent light down on some of the wider alleyways. One of these spots of light, spilling onto a wall down a divergent walkway, had shadows evident on it. Humanoid shadows. Jacen motioned for everyone to stop and take cover, and they watched the scene unfolding.

Projected on the distant wall were three figures obscuring a fourth, who seemed to be surrounded. Voices echoed from down the alleyway, but were to faint to be discerned by human, Klingon, or Twi'lek ears. Data, however, was somewhat better endowed. "It would seem that there is an altercation proceeding down there," Data said quietly. "Several human voices, and one I can not trace. He humans seem to be questioning the other on his presence her during the manhunt. I presume they are referring to the search for us." Riker noted that they must be imperials and Data agreed. "It would appear to be that way." Then he cocked his head to one side, "I am now picking up what would seem to be blows and shouts, perhaps a physical confrontation." Now the others could hear the muffled sounds, and Aayla rose from her hidden spot, lightsaber in hand. "Where are you going?" Jacen asked. "Going to help however it is down there," she replied, starting down the long alley. Jacen looked after her for a moment and then rushed to join her. "Wait, we can't risk it," Riker called. "What if they call in reinforcements?" Aayla stopped and turned. "It is my duty as a jedi knight to defend and serve those who cannot protect themselves. My order may not exist anymore, but I will defend its principles, even at the cost of my own life if need be," she called back, resolute, and then continued on, Jacen in tow. Riker frowned and shook his head at this brash act, but he did appreciate the sentiment. Such an aim was one of the directives of the Fedoration as well. He sighed, grabbed his phaser, and got up too. "The rest of you wait here," he ordered, rushing after the jedi before Worf or the Chief could object. "Aren't you going too?" Cortana asked over the Spartan's internal speaker. "I think they can handle it," he responded coolly, settling back to watch.

By the time the three had reached the spot of the fight, the victim was on the ground being brutally kicked by his attackers. It was a salmon-colored Mon Calamari, his once crisp flight suit ripped and covered in dust, and his fish-like head bruised and battered. Three imperial recruits, dressed not in stormtrooper armor, but instead drab, lightly armored combat clothing, were mercilessly beating the poor creature against the wall, their blaster pistols in holsters at their sides. "Gonna sing for us fishy, huh?" one said mockingly, placing his boot on the Mon Cal's jugular. "What has he done to warrant this officer?" Aayla asked softly, emerging from the shadows. The soldiers looked up. "This alien scum was walking around without papers," he snarled, and then looked over the Twi'lek. "I'm gonna have to see yours too. Maybe I'll frisk you for 'em." The others laughed, moving in on her. The Mon Cal looked up, gesturing slowly for her to get away while she could. Instead, Aayla moved closer to the assailants, Jacen and Riker coming into view as well. The soldiers were taken aback by their presence and reached for their blasters. "Friends, eh? Well, I guess will just have to take care of them before we get to you beautiful." Jacen shook his head. "Can't we work this out peacefully?" he said, adding a calming force presence to his voice. However, the three were to high on hormones, and alcohol judging by their breath, to be dissuaded by Jacen's skills. "That's enough you," the lead trooper snarled, pointing his blaster at Jacen. "Get up against the wall now!" "May I?" Aayla asked jokingly, glancing at Jacen. He shrugged. "That's all I needed to hear," she said, turning back to the troopers and igniting her saber. Jacen's blade flashed on as well, and the imperials stumbled back, surprised. "It's the jedi!" one of them shouted. "Get 'em!" A smart man would have instead turned and ran at the sight of two jedi in such confined conditions, but inebriation does strange things to one's mind.

The battle was very brief, and ended with the soldiers beating a hasty retreat, their weapons and comm links discarded, propping up their leader, who's left foot had a rather large hole in it. "We shouldn't have let them go," Aayla commented suddenly. "They should be made to pay for their crimes." Jacen looked at her surprised. There wasn't much else we could have done Aayla. There are no friendly authorities on this planet we could have given them to. Did you want me cut off each of their legs or something?" Aayla stared after the fleeing group. "Less than they deserve," she mumbled. Jacen was worried by this sudden change in his friend, but he was districted as Riker pulled the beaten Mon Calamari to his feat. "Are you all right?" Riker asked. The bulbous-headed alien nodded. "I am mostly uninjured, thanks to you," he rasped in Calamari accented Basic. "Just glad we could help," Jacen said, smiling as he deactivated his green saber. The Mon Cal's huge eye's watched the beam descend into its hilt. "You are jedi?" Jacen nodded. The alien regained his balance, and extended a hand to Jacen. "I am glad to see that your honorable order has survived the ire of the Emperor. My people are fighting our own war for survival against his forces and your noble kind inspires our fight to this day." Aayla half smiled, turning away from the defeated imperials. "Glad you feel that way. Now, if you're alright, we have to get out of here before more of them return." The Mon Cal half lidded his black eyes. "But I must repay your kind actions, you surely saved my life." Jacen shook his head. "No reward is necessary. Now, do you have some place where you can get out of these streets after we leave?" The salmon-colored alien nodded slowly, "My ship is not two hundred meters from here. I could…" Riker cut him off, suddenly excited. "Did you say ship?" The Mon Cal brightened up. "Yes, my home is docked just across the vehicle path," he said, pointing down a dark alley. Riker patted the Mon Calamari on the back, almost knocking him over. "I think there might be a way you could repay us after all."

"There she is, the Coral Iris," the Mon Calamari, who's Riker had determined to be Iask, said proudly a few minutes later. He was gesturing to a large craft sitting in one of the city's docking pits. It was quiet unique in design, shaped like a huge, flat sea ray. Its surface was smooth and worn, colored in white and faint blue. Like most Mon Calamari star ships, it's surface featured intermittent bulges, rising almost organically from its metallic frame. Standing with the Mon Cal in the docking bay's side entrance were the jedi and the others, looking at the starship with relief. Finally a way to get of the murderous world. Riker had already lost one man, but he had far more to think of. "How many passengers can your ship hold?" he asked, following Iask as he approached his ship in the gathering darkness. "The Iris can carry two hundred in her cargo bay, and the oxygen reprocessors can supply them for a day," the Mon Cal responded, reaching for a control in his clothing and activating it. A boarding ramp extended of one of its wing structures, clanking smoothly to the ground.

Riker considered what the pilot had said. The cargo capacity wasn't what he had hoped, but it might be enough to transport the Enterprise's crew before they're supplies ran out. "Thank you for agreeing to help us and our crew. We owe you a great debt," Riker said, trying to sound diplomatic. Iask however shook his head, casting off his efforts. "Do not concern yourself. You and your friends saved my life. Providing passage for them is nothing compared with that." At this, he began directing the others toward his vessel. "I think we should continue our conversation when we are safely of this world, I doubt the Imperials have ceased their search." As if on cue, a clatter and of blasting appeared outside the main entrance, which Cortana had hacked and sealed shut. "We shouldn't have let those brutes escape," Aayla muttered, encouraging the rest of the group forward. From behind them, the whining sound of melting durasteel erupted and sparks began to cascade from the doors. Finally they blew apart, and white armored enforcers of the Emperor piled through the cloud of debris, eager to end the hunt.

"Get in and start up the ship, we have to get out of here now!" Aayla ordered as stormtroopers continued to pour out of the ruptured gate, their blasters shattering the calm air with blasts of energy like cracks of thunder. Iask nodded quickly and pounded up the waiting ramp. As red beams of light began to trace towards the docked ship, the two lightsabers ignited and blocked incoming the bolts deftly, jedi using them like extensions of their own bodies. "All of you get on board!" Jacen yelled of the din of battle as Riker and his men drew their phasers. "Aayla and I can hold them off long enough!" Riker nodded to Data and Worf, and the Fedoration officers piled onboard under a hail of energy fire. Jossa, however, continued to pump fire into the approaching horde. When Riker placed a hand on her shoulder, he found her face was stained with tears, the memory of Maxwell's unjust fate still fresh in her mind. However, she was a Starfleet Officer, and the stern yet understanding look on Riker's face was the only order she needed. The two fired a few parting shots, and then hastened up the carbon-scored ramp, leaving only the jedi and Master Chief. The Spartan super soldier wove in and out behind the cover of the ramp expertly, his shield reflecting the occasional lucky shot. In his gauntleted hands was held a huge heavy repeating blaster, taken off a fallen sergeant during the bus stand off, and he was using it to take down stormtrooper after stormtrooper in quick, controlled bursts. The warrior's skill was unquestionable, but he needed to get on the ship.

Aayla was about to aboard again when something else caught her attention. Moving through the ranks of the stormtroopers, still outside the docking bay, was a presence unlike anything she had ever felt before. She must have been too occupied with her saber work to notice it before, but now the aura was now undeniable, dark and powerful. All of a sudden, the horde of soldiers ceased fire, instead moving to ready position, their blasters still pointed towards the ship. Aayla chanced a quick glance at her companions. The Chief had too ceased fire, taking the respite to reload his pillaged weapon. Jacen however was clutching his head in his right hand, the left allowing his green lightsaber to drift out of a fighting stance. "Are you hurt?" she whispered worriedly, her eyes shifting back to the throng before them and the approaching darkness beyond. Jacen shook his head slowly. "No, its… there's something coming though, familiar…" Suddenly, Jacen's head rolled to one side and he began to tip towards the ground, lightsaber deactivated but still in his grip. Master Chief caught him in one arm, his other still hefting the massive blaster. Aayla moved closer to the pair, covering them with the defensive radius of her lightsaber's reach. From Jacen she could feel a dreadful mix of confusion and dread, almost certainly triggered by the approaching presence. Disturbed and worried over Jacen's sudden collapse, Aayla still knew that the soldiers had to be held back until the ship started up its drives. "Get him onboard, I'll keep them at…" then she stopped, horrible realization sweeping over her. She knew what was coming.

"Get Jacen to safety, and tell the Mon Calamari to take off. I'll hold them off," she said darkly, a hollow feeling wrenching through her. For a moment, the Chief was about to question the risk the jedi was taking, but instead gave her a quick, heartfelt salute, and scooped Jacen into his arms. He knew that if she believed that this was the only way, then she was probably right. True warriors sometimes had to make such sacrifices, and the Chief suddenly felt a deep respect for the blue woman. He gave her a final nod of farewell, and then loped up the waiting ramp swiftly. Once safely onboard, the Chief tapped a door control, and the walkway began to slowly rise. The Spartan was afforded one last look at the jedi knight, her head tails swaying slightly in the wind, staring down death with defiance in her eyes.

Aayla hardly noticed as the ramp sealed behind her and Iask's ship started to life with a roar. He attention was consumed by a single figure moving through the ranks of stormtroopers. Around it hung a mantle of darkness, stronger than any Aayla had ever felt before. This darkness was a storm of anger, of hatred, and of above all pain. Finally, as the ship at her back took slowly to the darkened sky, the figure passed the outermost rank of soldiers. Even before she could discern the black figure's features in the dim light, she knew who it was. Anakin Skywalker, Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith.

The jedi had pictured the being Anakin had become after Jacen had recounted his terrible story, but what she had conjured up was nothing compared to what stood before her. Although the towering black armored suit of the dark one was intimidating enough, it was his mask that held Aayla's terrified attention. It was macabre and distorted, mirroring the twisted soul beneath. Behind the huge, opaque eye bulges, Aayla could sense nothing but a brooding anger, deep and terrible. The creature before her was indeed Anakin Skywalker, but only in the most literal sense. Most of the courageous and kind knight of the force she had once known was gone, and what little was left was almost unrecognizable. When it spoke, the sound chilled Aayla to the core.

"Aayla Secura, I believed you slain long ago. I am gratified that I was mistaken." The voice was low and menacing, rasping methodically with haggard breaths, and Aayla could feel emotion as powerful as a neutron star behind it. For a long while the knight tried to conjure up words of challenge for the slayer of her entire order, but all she could manage was "Anakin, how could you?" "That name means nothing any longer," he rumbled. "A relic from a meaningless past long forgotten." But still Aayla persisted. "They were your family Anakin, your friends, your teachers. Why did you do it?" The Lord of the Sith took a step forward. "It was the only way. They had to pay, they had to die." As thought these words were a match, a new emotion, not fear or sorrow or pity, but anger erupted within her and exploded outwards. She lunged forward, a pained and furious "No!" emanating from her lips.

With incredible speed, a red beam burst from Darth Vader's hand, blocking Aayla's furious blow and knocking her backwards. Illuminated by the red glow of his lightsaber, Anakin advanced. "The old masters were weak Aayla. Corrupted and blinded by their own power." The Twi'lek ignored the words and charged at the dark being again. She propelled herself into the air and flipped over the dark lord, hoping to catch him from behind. Even as she flew, Darth Vader summoned the force to him and propelled a blast of its might towards her, knocking the jedi out of her arch and sending her sprawling to the ground. Rolling to one side, she heard the hiss of Vader's lightsaber striking the ground where she had lain a second before, and drew her body upright again, lightsaber at the ready. As she watched the dark warrior approach her, a sudden thought came to mind. She remembered that Jacen had told her that Anakin had redeemed himself in the end, that even in his darkest hour there had been good in him still. "Stop Anakin, its not too late. There is still good in you, the dark side hasn't erased it yet." Vader seemed to ignore these words, instead bringing his saber on her own, his brute strength chipping away at the Jedi's resolve. "You do not know the truth. Yoda's teachings still cloud your vision, the truth," he said coldly, battering Aayla's blue blade again.

The two combatants struck and parried, moving from one side of the landing pad to the other in a deadly dance, the eerie hissing sounds of their sabers filling the night air. With every blow she deflected, Aayla could feel her strength ebbing away, while her opponent seemed to be increasing in strength as the duel continued. She desperately tried acrobatic maneuvers and force attacks of startling variety, but Darth Vader withstood them all, his saber axing into her own at every opportunity. Slowly the jedi realized this was a fight she could not win. Anakin was relentless, taking advantage of her every falter, every miscalculation, not with finesse or agility, but with simple, undeniable force. Aayla was broken; it was only a matter of time until she felt the bite of the crimson blade. Darth Vader felt it to, and knew how to exploit her failing will. When their lightsabers crossed again, he pushed her back, off balance, and with a simple wave off his hand, sent her careening into the ferrocrete wall a dozen meters away. The stormtroopers, who had been watching the fight in rapt fascination, scrambled desperately out of the way of the living projectile. Aayla collided with the wall torso first, and felt bone shatter. She slid to the ground, left arm broken and bleeding. Gritting her teeth to bear the pain, she pulled herself upright, slouched against the solid wall, and watched as Vader walked slowly towards her. She knew death had come at last, she had no more strength or will to fight, she was defeated. A sickening feeling gripped her heart, and she was ashamed of it. The jedi had hoped to die on her feet, without a doubt what she was doing was right, bravely facing down the adversaries of order and justice to the end, but instead all she felt was fear and emptiness, every bit of resolve draining away with the blood from her injuries. The dark one was upon her now, towering over the broken jedi, his crimson weapon point at her heart.

"There is only one way," he said. "Surrender, join me, and embrace the dark side of the force. The old masters were wrong, the dark side is not the root of evil, it is a source of great power. They were holding us back Aayla, lying to us. They were afraid of what we might become, better, stronger than them. And my master and I destroyed them for their blindness and selfishness; it was the only choice, the only way. Their way bred anarchy and chaos, and that had to be stopped." For a moment, Darth Vader looked off reflectively, his dark energies surging. "But Palpatine deceived me, brought his own brand of disorder and treachery. He must be destroyed as well." He moved back to Aayla's broken form. "Embrace the dark side and join me. Together we can destroy Palpatine and bring order again to the galaxy. I can feel the desire deep within you, the wish for vengeance. You know this is the only path, the will of the force." And with these words, to Aayla's surprise and horror, he extended a heavy gloved hand to her, a chance for life and power.

Vader's words had cut through Aayla's mind like razors, shredding her mental barriers, her faith, whatever semblance of peace that remained within her. Her mind was left cold and empty, and the power of the dark side hungrily filled the void with whisperings of power and vengeance. She tried to fight back, push the thoughts away, but to her horror they felt right, seemed reasonable. Through this swirling mass emerged a new emotion, stronger than all of the others. It was hatred, pure and unadulterated. Hatred of Palpatine. She wanted the power to destroy him, to rip the demons heart from his tainted chest and feel his blood on her hands. She looked up at Vader, and knew there was only one way to satisfy her dark craving. The aura of the force around her began to morph, to distort, and a terrible look passed over her eyes.

Aayla Secura took Darth Vader's hand.

Chapter Eighteen

"Who the hell are you?" Truul ordered, his hastily grabbed rifle pointed at the dark figure. Beside him, Geordi and the Arbiter had whirled around as well, and the elite was preparing to lunge at the interloper. The presence, easily as tall as the Covenant warrior, walked slowly forward, passing into the light of the cabin's flight lamp. As it became more defined, Dr. Crusher gasped in surprise. "You? How could you be here?" she asked wearily, rising from her place beside the still unconscious Picard. The creature was thin and tall, sporting gray, scaly skin. It was dressed in a thin dark tan robe, under which protrusions of armor on its shoulders and odd, rear-jointed legs were visible. Most striking was its head, a tall conical structure tapered by small fin-like structures and adorned by two large eyes, which seemed to shift from pitch black to a pleasant sea blue as it shifted its gaze. The alien had no visible mouth, and seemed not speak, but everyone in the shuttle could hear it's low voice very clearly. "Do not be alarmed, I wish none of you harm." The being stepped more into the crew cabin, and the Enterprise escapees recoiled from it slightly, still startled by the appearance of an unknown passenger on their escape ship. Geordi too was filled apprehension. "You've met this…person before Doctor?" he asked slowly. The woman nodded. "Yes, I think he's one of the transporter accident passengers. The one who never woke up."

"Well, he's awake now," Truul grumbled, his blaster still leveled at the alien. "Flitch, take the controls." The young rebel nodded and scrambled into the pilot's seat, glancing nervously into the rear cabin. "How did you get on our ship?" Truul asked, turning his attention back to the reptilian creature. It took another step forward, and then paused as Truul made a threatening gesture with his weapon. "I simply escaped and evaded the other humans and followed you to this vessel, than slipped on to it during the fighting," the alien spoke, or thought, however it was communicating, clearly and calmly. "I meant you no ill will, I was just attempting to gain passage of the hostile vessel." Truul didn't like the idea of someone following him around, and was about to say so when Deanna Troi spoke up. "He speaks the truth, I can sense no deception or hostility from him," she said, moving up from her bench next to him. The alien turned his elongated head towards her skeptically. "A telepath?" he asked, more to himself than the Betazoid woman. "Awe yes, I can feel your psionic presence. Surprisingly weak." He stared into Deanna's eyes penetratingly, and his gaze made the counselor very uncomfortable. She began to sweat, and the creature averted his eyes abruptly. "Forgive me, I just had to be sure of your own intentions. My experience with telepaths of your species has been…strained," he supplicated.

Truul eyed both of the aliens, telepath and telepath evidently, and considered his next move. He had broken his cover and lost a man to retrieve the Fedoration officers, and he wouldn't allow some big hulking trandoshan of and a creature mess it up now. Then again, they did seem to have seen him before, and Alliance High Command might be interested in a pair of mind readers. He didn't like the idea of people poking around his head, but sacrifices had to be made in the fight for freedom. "Well, your luck were in hyperspace, or you'd be going straight out an airlock. Keep out of trouble or Flitch here 'ill shoot you." The young rebel looked up, startled by the statement. Truul tossed him one of the stolen blaster rifles. "Keep an eye on 'em," he said. "All of 'em." He then relived Flitch of his chair and went back to monitoring their flight path. After this, the tense mood among the weary passengers eased slightly, and Dr. Crusher returned to treating the Captain's injuries, mumbling something about the mental state of their rescuer.

The reptilian alien returned his gaze to Deanna. "Now, I would like to know what is occurring here and where exactly here is," he said straightforwardly. Deanna, still sweating from her previous probe by the creature, shook of her uneasiness and tried to smile. "Yes, I believe I can fill you in."

As it turned out, the preset hyperspace coordinates took the shuttle to an empty patch of space several light-years from the Torrent. Worried that they might have been tracked, Truul initiated a series of erratic jumps that would move them slowly towards Sullust, current position of the Rebel fleet. The soldier just hoped the fleet was still assembled there; he had been out of the loop on the Alliance's plans for several weeks, ever since infiltrating the Torrent. He didn't even know why the fleet would be near the volcanic world. After setting a new jump path through a cluster of empty star systems, Truul sank back into his chair, reflecting on recent events. He, Charen, and Flitch Espada, who was at the moment sweeping the shuttle for tracking devices, had been dispatched to gain entry to the Torrent in order to track its flight path and if possible sabotage it if the cruiser encountered any of the Alliance supply ships that frequented it's patrol route. The plan had been that they stay undercover until a set date, when a rebel strike force would cripple or hopefully even capture the Star Destroyer with the help of the infiltrators. That plan had to be scraped now, Truul thought grimly, but he hoped it had been worth it. He had managed to get his men into guard positions for Captain Picard's interrogator, intrigued by the unusual prisoners. The old man hadn't let much slip much under torture, but from what Charen had reported, these prisoners were extremely valuable. An entire civilization of humans untouched by Palpatine's scourge. From what had been gathered from the questioning reports of various others, less hardened officers, they were members of the United Fedoration of Planets, a peaceful organization much like the Old Republic the Rebel Alliance was trying to restore. They seemed to possess varying degrees of advanced technology, and even if it wasn't up to par with Imperial tech, Truul was convinced an established military force like the Federation's "Starfleet" backing up the Alliance would greatly improve their chances against the Empire. This is why Truul had blown his mission and lost a man, the slim chance that he could get his passengers back to their own universe, have them convince their government to aid the Alliance, and hopefully stand a chance against the Emperor's titanic war machine. It was a long shot, and High Command might not even approve of his attempt, but they were losing the war, and drastic, risky moves had to be made. He just hoped his gambit had been worth it.

While Truul plotted his erratic course, and Deanna related to the alien, Tassadar as he had identified himself, the events of the past week, Dr. Crusher and the nurses worked on clearing the interrogation drugs from Picard's system. One of the nurses worked on covering a nasty gash on his forehead with an anti-septic bacta patch she had recovered from the shuttle's med kit. After nearly an hour of work with the meager medical supplies she had at her disposal, Dr. Crusher was able to finally awaken Picard, raising him to a sitting position as he cleared his eyes groggily.

"Doctor," he mumbled, looking blearily at her, and then his head began to clear. "Doctor?" His gaze passed around the small chamber as the other Fedoration personnel looked on, relived to have their captain back. "Where are we?" he asked, rising unsteadily to his feet, Beverly Crusher supporting him. "Safe, for now," she replied, glancing up at the rebel commander who was sitting in the cockpit, evidently deep in thought. "They managed to get a few of us of that Imperial ship, although they haven't told us why yet." Picard followed her gaze. "Who are they?"

"I'm not sure sir, but their leader seems to be fairly anxious to talk to you," Geordi said. Picard rubbed his eyes again and nodded, and then looked around again. "How many escaped?" he asked. Geordi slung his head and sighed. "Only those who were in the brig area with you sir. The Doctor, Counselor Troi, Barclay, Lieutenant Tolpak, Nurses Onigawa and Walling, and myself. Two of the guests escaped as well," the Engineer reported solemnly. "Ensign Mendez was with us to, but he was killed during the escape." For a moment, Picard did not speak. Only seven of his crew had made it of that blasted ship, the rest at the mercy of an Empire that had no reason to hold and torture them, but was doing it none the less. He had to go back, to try and save the rest, it was duty to them. Unsteadily, the Captain worked his way forward, slowly regaining the use of his legs. Truul, who was absentmindedly thrumming the control panel of the cockpit with his fingers looked up as Picard entered and lowered himself into the copilot's seat, the hatch sliding closed behind him. "Finally up are ya?" the rebel commented. "Thought you might be back there forever." Picard tried to smile and extended his hand. "I would like to thank you for saving my crew at the risk of the lives of you and your men." Truul shook the thanks of with a wave of his hand, an image of Charen passing through his mind. "I couldn't let the Imps keep ya." Picard let the short reply pass into silence, and then sighed. "However, I need to go back. I can't allow my crew to suffer on that Imperial ship, as they will no doubt do because of our escape. You need not be dragged into this, just send me back and take my crew to safety." Such an act of self-sacrifice could not be undertaken lightly, but the Captain would be willing to do far worse for them.

Truul shook his head. "No can do Captain. I lost a man to rescue you, and not about to throw away our mission just because of your sense of duty or honor," he replied without looking at Picard. "It's too bad I couldn't get more of your crew out, but they're acceptable losses." At this remark, Picard's demeanor suddenly changed. "One thousand for ten is not acceptable losses!" he spoke angrily. "No one asked you to save me. I must go back." Truul suddenly glared at Picard equally angry. "Do you really think you going back will save them Picard? If the Imperials want something from 'em, they'll take it, and when they're done, whoever survives will be shipped of to some backwater world, and no one will ever hear from them again. That's how those fiekirks do things, and if you go back, it'll just happen to you to, although you'll end up dead a lot faster than the rest." Picard looked at the rebel for a long while, and the truth of what he said sank in. "Face it Picard, they're gone. Even if I could wrangle up enough ships to take on that star destroyer, they'd probably be gone, replaced by even more hips looking for that wormhole of yours." Picard slumped back into the chair, now acutely aware of a headache spreading through his mind. "Why did you rescue us?" Truul proceeded to recount his plan, his hopes, his assumptions about Picard and the Fedoration, as well as a short history of the rebellion. When he had finished, Picard shook his head. "Even if we could find the wormhole and get back through it, it is against Fedoration policy to interfere with the internal affairs of other groups." This was the response Truul had feared, but he wasn't about to give up. "These people, Palpatine, are monsters. They kill and torture without reason, what they're doing to your crew right now." Picard cringed at this, and Truul decided to stay of the topic. "They blew up an entire planet just to test a new weapon. Seven billion people killed without a thought. They've enslaved or wiped out entire species Picard, and they could easily do it again. You can't not be involved in this now. If they find that wormhole, then nothing will stop them from rolling over your Fedoration. But if you help us, if we can get you to your people first and warn them, then we might have a fighting chance. It probably won't work of course, and I doubt your "Starfleet" could stand up to them, but if they could even just distract them, the Alliance might have the chance to gain enough support to stop the Empire once and for all." When Truul mentioned this grim prospect, Picard shuddered. The Fedoration hadn't been at war for decades, and judging by the sheer size of a single Imperial cruiser, Picard doubted that the Fedoration could survive a war with them, especially if tales the fleets of thousands of the ships Truul had recounted to him were true. His superiors were used to opponents of comparable size and power, like the Romulans or the Cardassians, but this Empire it seemed far surpassed both. A feeling of dread passed over Picard, he had witnessed the Fedoration brought to its knees before, by the Borg, and he wouldn't stand for it again. "Very well," he said finally. "If you can get me back to my own dimension, I shall try to convince them of the danger the Empire posses. But I can guarantee nothing."

This was all Truul needed to hear. "Glad you see it my way. We'll be at fleet command in a few days, and I can propose my plan to higher ups." He grinned. "You aint the only one with superiors." The rebel turned back to the controls, but a sudden pang of guilt struck him. "And I'm sorry about your crew, really. I know who it feels to lose men." Picard sighed and nodded, and was preparing to inform the others of their situation when a sudden thought struck him. "We have to go back." Truul sighed exasperatedly. "Look Picard, I thought we already…" The Captain held out a hand to interrupt him. "No, before the Imperials picked us up, I sent a small number of my crew, including my first officer and two form this universe on a reconnaissance mission to a star system close to our position. We need to catch them before they fly straight into Imperial hands." Truul frowned. "What do you mean by people from this universe?" he asked. "Before the Enterprise, our ship, passed through the wormhole, we picked up several individuals that were not from our galaxy. Two of them are onboard this ship, but the others went with my first officer. Among them are two who identified themselves as jedi, from this dimension." Truul's jaw dropped. To bring a jedi, much less two in contact with the Alliance was worth a promotion to general, and might end up saving his skin if the commanders didn't go for his crazy Fedoration plan. Luke Skywalker, the only force-user in the Rebellion, had alone turned their struggle from a hopeless running fight to an unlikely, but winnable struggle. Imagine what three together could do. "I don't think a little detour could hurt," Truul said, hastily altering the flight computer's coordinates. Picard was surprised; he had expected to have to haggle with the rebel. "Near your position 'eh? Sounds like the Poloon system. Hold on, course corrections can get pretty choppy."

In surge of motion, the commandeered Lambda-class shuttle plunged out of hyperspace and it the blackness of realspace. The journey had taken only an hour and a half, but it had felt like an eternity to Picard and the others. If Riker and the others made it back to the point where the Torrent had picked up the refugee fleet, then they would be captured as well, and Picard would lose even more good officers. Truul was also concerned. Although it was unlikely they were still being tracked, he were taking a risk not heading straight for the fleet with his passengers, and they were a long way from rebel reinforcements. Still, allowing two more jedi to fall into Darth Vader's hands would be unacceptable, and Truul wasn't about to be accessory to the genocide of the Jedi Order. Besides, a promotion might depend on the success of this mission, and such considerations were seldom far from Truul's mind.

"There she is, Poloon Three. If your friends are still in this system, that where they'll be," Truul said from the pilot's seat, gesturing at the distant world, a blue and gray marble hanging in the blackness. From over his shoulder, Picard looked on intently, as if staring at the world would speed their journey towards it. In the copilot's chair, Flitch sat, nervously scanning the sensors. "Major Besteen… um, Truul," the young man spoke up, remembering that that Truul liked being on a first name basis during operations. "I'm picking up a lot of activity around that planet, maybe we should go in quiet." Truul shook his head. "Nah, its fine. The Poloon system is a major trade hub in this sector, there are bound to be plenty of ships going in and out. Just stay out of they're way and they'll stay out of ours." Flitch nodded and returned to scanning his sensors. "So what were your men doing here Picard, where should we look for them?" Picard thought back. "Well, they're mission was to locate a ship that could transport the Enterprise's survivors to a habitable world." Truul nodded and began to access the planet's trade and communications net. "Then they'll probably be looking around the cantinas or shipping companies. Hold on, I'll check out the…" A light began flashing on Flitch's sensor display. "Son, shut that thing off. I told you that this world had plenty of traffic," Truul ordered, annoyed at being interrupted. "Yes sir, but well," the rebel stopped to double-check his readings. "Is there normally an Imperial fleet stationed here?" Truul looked at his subordinate sharply. "What?" Flitch tapped a few controls and a representation of the system appeared on the flight terminal's data screen. There were the expected transponder signals of various cargo freighters and private craft. However, there were also five different signals, glowing blue for ally on the stolen ship's monitor. "Imp patrols hardly ever stop around here, much less a whole fleet." He began working the controls fiercely as the shuttle grew closer to the planet, which had swollen to fill most of the canopy viewport. Picard turned to see Deanna enter, no doubt attracted by the sudden consternation in Truul's voice. "Is something the matter? Have they located," her voice trailed off as she glanced out the window. "What is that?" she gasped. The others looked up to see what had caught her attention. At they're range, even the largest of the cargo ships silhouetted on the planet's surface appeared as nothing more than pinpricks, but directly before them was a huge shape, dagger like and long. Its hull was seemingly thin, but its upper surface was covered in black, tower-like structures, giving the impression of a large cityscape. Truul's mouth fell open in shock. "An Imperial Command ship," he muttered grimly. "One Super Star Destroyer and four escorting Imperial-class Destroyers in high orbit sir," Flitch affirmed shakily, studying his sensor readouts. "Well," Truul stated numbly. "It's a safe bet that the Empire knows your friends are here."

At almost thirteen miles long, the Executor-class Command ships were some of the largest starships in existence, and the embodiment of Imperial power and authority. They're sheer size could scare even the most staunch opponent into surrender without as much as a shot form its thousands of turbolaser emplacements, and its shields had enough power to shake off head on collisions with bodies in excess of a mile long. Only a handful were known to exist, but one was recognizable to most of the inhabitants of the civilized galaxy, Vader's Command ship, after which the whole line was named. And towards this behemoth and its mile long tenders, miniscule by comparison, the shuttle hurtled, like an insect drawn to by a bright lamp. To veer of this close would draw suspicion, and the attention of an Imperial task force was the last thing any of the passengers needed. "Should we not move away?" the Arbiter asked, crowding the small doorway, which was slowly drawing a crowd. "Too late," Truul responded, keeping doggedly on the controls. "Nothing for it but to keep going and hope they don't ask any questions." It was a false hope of course, Imperials always asked questions, but it was all they had.

Truul tried to angle the ship into a populated flight lane to disguise them, but traffic was minimal, perhaps due to an Imperial cordon of the planet, but it didn't make a difference. The transponder identifying the shuttle as Imperial property was active, and such an unscheduled arrival in the presence of other Imperials was bound to raise eyebrows. The Command ship was now large enough to see clearly, light reflected of Poloon Three's single moon illuminating its cold, metal frame. The inhabitants of the cockpit watched quietly as the shuttle began to pass it by, a mere ten thousand kilometers away. Suddenly, Flitch shouted, "I'm picking up an energy spike from those ships!" They would fire so soon, without so much as a request for clearance, Truul wondered desperately. "Evasive maneuvers! Initiate the…" However, before the Major could finish his order, white light spilled from the vast engines of the ships, and in a flash, they jumped into the blackness, disappearing instantly.

"The Imperial fleet has jumped into hyperspace," Iask stated calmly. He and Riker were sitting on the small bridge of the Coral Iris, watching the sensor displays. "However, it seems that they have left a single Star Destroyer, perhaps to look for us." Riker nodded. "Can your ship evade it long enough to jump to warp?" The Mon Calamari swiveled a large eye at the commander quizzically. "Warp?" Riker paused, and shook his head, embarrassed. "Hyperspace, right. Sorry, I'm new around here." The Mon Cal swiveled his eye back to the control display in front of him. "Perhaps there are some things you should tell me when we are in a less precarious situation," he said, pulling up long-range readings on the Star Destroyer's status. "As to your question, it is possible that we could make our escape before the Destroyer was on us, but it may be wise to wait a few hours. It appears to be in geo-synchronous orbit above Starlane City, and should pass out of pursuit range fairly soon." The plan made sense, and a few more hours wouldn't affect Riker's mission that much. "Alright, I'll go back and check on the others." He rose from the secondary flight control and headed towards the door. "And thanks again for this."

After blasting off from the docking port, the Coral Iris had been pursued by a squad of Tie fighters. Although the ship was a modified cargo freighter at one hundred and five meters long, it was surprisingly fast maneuverable, and would have escaped from the patrol if it hadn't run into the Imperial fleet when it broke orbit. Fortunately, the fleet hadn't take much interest in the fleeing ship, and the Iris was able escape their firing range before their turbolaser banks had opened up. Still doggedly pursued by the fighter squadron, Iask had flown his ship into the debris field surrounding the planet's single, uninhabited moon. The field, made up of trash and various carcasses of wrecked and abandoned ships, had been largely ignored by the planetary government for centuries, and thus was sufficiently dense to hide the Mon Calamari ship. Settled in the burned out hull of an old Lanowar Assault Cruiser with the power at minimum, the Tie fighters had lost them, and had moved off to a distant part of the trash cloud, chasing sensor ghosts and drifting debris.

Riker worked his way aft, past the weapons stations and the large storage hangar that dominated the forward fin section. In the tail lay Iask living quarters and the access ramp area, where the rest of Riker's team still waited, strapped in preparation for more evasive maneuvers. Passing down a short hallway, Riker loped through a white, clean door and into the habitation area. Jossa, Data, and Worf were located beyond, seated in the main passenger area, a small, bright chamber lined with a row of seats. "We've managed to evade the Imperials and most of them have moved off, but the pilot thinks we should remain hidden until the remained of the force is out of range." The others rose from their restraints, relieved to be at rest for a moment at least. "Commander, I would like to be advised to our tactical position," Worf asked, straightening the phaser on his belt. Riker nodded. "The bridge is beyond the storage bay, I'm sure Iask will allow you to look over the sensors." The Klingon made a nod of recognition, and headed through the hatch Riker had passed through. Data was examining a wall control display, admiring its construction. "Ingenious," he said, in the fascinated tone he took on while studying new technology. "The visual display is design to split information on two bands vision. I suspect it would increase the practicality of these displays greatly for sentients of the Mon Calamari's facial configuration." Riker grinned a little, reminded of happier days on the Enterprise, Data's constant fascination with even the most ordinary things. He was about to speak with Jossa, who was staring aimlessly at the floor, evidently absorbed with grief, when he noticed the absences. "Were are the jedi and Master Chief?" Data looked up from his control panel. "I believe that they are still in the rear access hallway. I suspect that they found places to secure themselves back there." This made sense, the inertial dampeners onboard the Iris were evidently set fairly low, and the evasive maneuvers had been difficult on the passengers. Riker made his way through to the very rear of the ship, Data and Jossa in tow.

As they were about to enter the boarding chamber, the door slid open, revealing the armored Spartan super soldier, Jacen supported in his arms. "Is he injured?" Riker asked, grabbing hold of Jacen's shoulders. The Chief shook his head. "Negative sir, just a little shaken up. He passed out while we were holding off the Imperial troops and the liftoff didn't help." Riker looked at the soldier's opaque bubble faceplate quizzically. "Collapsed?" "While the jedi and I were holding off the Imperial soldiers Commander. Jacen Solo lost focus and began to collapse and Aayla Secura…" The Chief was interrupted by an odd shivering movement from Jacen, although his eyes were still closed. "Aayla Secura ordered me to take him onboard and seal the docking ramp," the Chief continued. Riker was astonished. "You mean you left her there? Why?" His voice was tinged with a sudden anger. The soldier stared back impassively. "She seemed to believe it was the only way to allow the ship to leave. I doubt any course of action I could have taken would have convinced her to come onboard." The Chief was doubted that Riker could understand the mental link two warriors could feel; fleet crew could often loose such things. Before Riker could respond, Jacen let out a small moan. "I can't feel her. She's gone." Riker grabbed his shoulders tighter. "Gone? Do you mean…" His words were cut short as Worf boomed suddenly over the ship's comm. "Commander, report to the bridge. We may have a problem." Riker glanced once more at the mournful Jacen and then sighed. "Jossa, find him a bed. The rest of you, with me."

Back on the ship's small command center, the Mon Calamari and Worf were monitoring the remaining Star Destroyer closely. Riker and the others piled into chamber, their attention immediately grabbed by the image of the destroyer displayed on the chamber's sensor screens. Next to it, miniscule by comparison, several starships flew, exchanging green spears of fire. "What's the situation?" Riker asked, moving behind the secondary command chair, in which Worf was seated. "The Imperial cruiser just dispatched a squadron of fighters to pursue a shuttle attempting to leave orbit," Iask replied in his wheezy Basic. "Sensor readings indicate it's a Lambda class shuttlecraft." "Another Imperial ship," Worf clarified. Riker watched the battle intently, stroking his chin. Why would they be firing on one of their own ships? "Did you pick up any communications between the two?" he asked. "Negative commander," Lt. Worf replied. "If there were any, the signal clutter from the other starships in orbit blocked it. However, they are broadcasting some kind of repeating signal." The Klingon tapped a few controls. "I… um, can't read them though." From the Chief's helmet, Cortana spoke up. "Hold on, I'll interface and enter my translator algorithms." The odd, blocky writing on Worf's display flickered, disappeared, and was replaced with English characters, reading: _Power down your vessel and prepare to be boarded._ _You have fifteen seconds to comply or we will open fire. _A moment later, the same message was repeated in a cold, human voice over the ship's speaker system. Iask apprised the others on his bridge with curiosity. "You really must tell me where you are from when this is over. Now, I would request your droid brain remove itself from my system. R2-E4 dislikes competitors." To compound the point, a bucket-shaped squat astromech droid rolled onto the bridge, its green-plated dome twisting back and forth furiously. Emitting a rapid series of shrill beeps, it extended a metallic arm from its body and plugged into a wall terminal. "Oh, sorry," Cortana said, mildly embarrassed. "Should have asked." Sensing her receding from the computer, the small droid tooted in an annoyed fashion and retracted its arm. Riker found it curious that the Mon Calamari was not alarmed by Cortana's sudden presence. Perhaps the people of this universe were more familiar with artificial beings.

Worf cleared his thought, his attention focused on the firefight. "I believe this may be an opportunity to escape. If the Destroyer is occupied, we may be able to avoid its notice." Iask nodded. "A sound proposal, I shall implement it." The ship's engines ignited, and its primary systems began to come back online. The Mon Cal pushed on the thruster lever, and his freighter began to ease forward, out of the debris. "Wait," Riker said suddenly. "Head towards the fleeing shuttle." The rest looked at him, surprised. "Commander, I do not believe that course of action is wise. We have no way of knowing who is on the craft," Data stated. "I know, but I've got a feeling about this," Riker said. In his mind, the logical part of his brain began to berate him for such a ridiculous idea, but for some reason helping the besieged shuttle felt right. "After all, the enemy of our enemy is our friend," he said, placing a familiar cocky grin on his face. Iask looked into Riker's face, Considering. At last he sighed. "I too question the practicality of this action, but I am still indebted to you." As the alien began to orient his craft towards the distant cruiser, a sense of shame flooded Riker. He had forgotten that this was the Mon Calamari's vessel. "I'm sorry, I had… you don't have too go. I couldn't ask any more from you," he supplicated. But just as he had done before, Iask shrugged it off. "No, it is alright. After all, I was saved from death. Why shouldn't I pass the gift on to another?" Riker smiled. This pilot was a rare breed; nobility such as his was rare in any universe. "Prepare for combat. There are two gunnery stations just aft of the bridge," the pilot said, accelerating his ship out of the garbage cloud. "Can you operate them?" Riker grinned. "I think I can manage." He headed back out of the cramped command area, Master Chief falling into place behind him. "I knew you couldn't resist blowing something up," Cortana whispered jokingly in his ear.

The manta shaped Coral Iris shot through crowds of starships fleeing the small battle, its energy shields crackling to life. The small shuttle flew erratically, battered by the green blasts of seven pursuing Ties. The Star Destroyer flew along behind, sending an occasional volley of turbolaser bolts after the fleeing ship. Focused on their prey, the fighters didn't notice the lone freighter swing up behind them. "Are you ready Commander?" Iask called over the comm. Riker was seated in a recessed alcove, a projection of the outside space spreading over his head. Before him was a large control panel, very similar to the E-Web turret back planetside. He couldn't read any of the controls of course, but he got the gist of it. "I'm set," he said, aiming a targeting reticule on the closest Tie. Behind him, in a similar station the Master Chief sat, slightly cramped by his armor, but ready nonetheless. A green light flicked to life on his display and the pilot shouted the go ahead. Closing his eyes involuntarily, Riker squeezed the firing studs under his hands.

From each wing of the graceful manta a dual-barreled weapon emerged, swiveling swiftly on their mounts. Then two streams of livid red fire poured forth, speeding through empty space like lightning bolts. Taken unawares, one of the fighters exploded instantly, its hexagonal wings flying away the fireball that had once been the cockpit. Confused by the attack, the others broke their formation and spun back, just in time to see the Iris plow past them. The gunners on the Star Destroyer began to fire on this new threat with vigor, and a Turbolaser blast knocked against the shields. The ship listed to the side sharply, knocking all those standing to the deck plate. The six remaining Ties quickly recovered and began to tail the freighter, adding their energy bolts to that of their carrier. The Chief and Riker moved their turrets around to the rear on their pivots and continued firing, their blasts taking down another pursuer. Finding itself with an unexpected ally, the shuttle moved closer to the freighter, taking shelter near its shields. "They are not responding to hails, their communications array may be offline," Iask commented, scanning the ship. "Their engines appear to be failing," Worf said, taking advantage of the translation subroutines Cortana had left in the ship's computer despite the astromech's complaints. "They wont be able to jump," Iask said worriedly, analyzing the sensor display. "They're to damaged to take much more from the Destroyer, and the Iris's shields are beginning to fade." The situation was beginning to look hopeless. As Riker thrummed his turret, he wondered if his feeling was going to get them all killed. The Tie he was targeting wove under his blasts, unleashing its own fire on the fleeing ship. The craft buckled again.

As sparks began to spit from the shield control panel on the bridge, something occurred to Data. "Iask, is the cargo hold in this ship large enough to accommodate that shuttle?" For a moment, the Mon Calamari ran over dimensions in his head. "I believe it is, but… ah, yes." If the set jaws of his species were capable of grinning, Iask would have been as he triggered the cargo doors of his vessel open. At the top of his ship's smooth surface, a long crack appeared and began to widen, revealing the ships main chamber, the cargo hold, beneath. Normally, the hold would have been filled with raw material or droid parts, as Iask often transported for industrial firms, but all that flew out were a few packing crates, left over from his last job. The pursuing fighters skimmed easily out of the way of the debris, and moved closer to see what their prey was planning. Taking advantage of there reduce range, the Chief sent four energy blasts into one fighter's hull, spilling its unfortunate pilot into space. The others eased back, but the intensity of their fire increased. Fortunately, the shuttle seemed to realize what Iask was doing and began to position itself above the freighter, its fight wings closing around its body. Suddenly alerted to their plan, the gunners on the Destroyer upped its cannonade, but the Lambda had already touched down, the load doors closing overhead. "I assume you don't have a preference for our jump coordinates Commander," the pilot asked dryly as the Iris's shields began to fail. "Anywhere but here," was Riker's response as he fired a few parting shots at his pursuers. The hyperdrive engines, mounted under the Iris's tail section, hummed to life and spilled forth white light. Then, in a surge of motion, the Coral Iris was gone, leaving the Imperial ships alone in space.

Riker, along with Master Chief, Lt. Worf and Data walked down the stairway connecting the command deck with the cargo bay floor, weapons in hand. As they clacked across the cold metal floor, a ramp mounted under the shuttle's cockpit section began to descend, and the Chief aimed his repeating blaster at the opening. Commander Riker waved him off, he didn't want their guests to feel threatened, but bringing armament was a precaution that could not be done without. With a puff of steam, the ramp hit the deck plate, revealing an empty passageway illuminated by a single light. Making sure his translator was on; Riker stepped forward and called out. "We mean you no harm. Our ship noticed yours in distress and we decided to render assistance." Before Riker could finish his formal assurances, a head poked into view. "Commander?" Riker smiled in astonishment and relief. "Geordi! What are you doing on that ship?" The engineer moved himself into full view, and others emerged behind him. "It's a long story Commander, a long story."

Chapter Nineteen

The guard collapsed onto the floor with the muffled sound of flesh on stone, his head cloven in two. Behind the crumpled form, three other Imperial Royal Guardsmen, draped in their imposing crimson robes, looked on in alarm and dismay. As the attacker stepped over the smoking body of their compatriot, in unison they activated the power cells embedded in the long force pikes each held, although they each knew it was a futile gesture. The pointed ends of their staffs sparked with energy, and the guards pointed them at their assailant, a wall of electric death. The Emperor's Imperial Guard were some of the greatest fighters in the galaxy, and three of them armed could give a rancor pause, but this foe would not be stopped by such petty obstacles. As the soldiers prepared to attack, the lead guard suddenly found his deadly staff wrenched from his hands. From behind his eye slit, he watched the weapon hover in mid air for a moment before it hurled itself at his neck, flinging him into a nearby wall and snapping his neck. Their formation destroyed, the remaining men exchanged final glances and charged, weapons raised to impale their target. Force pikes in the hands of such men could puncture armor plating, but this adversary was quick, and dove in-between the approaching weapons. In a flash of red light, on guard collapsed, a gaping hole running across his armored chest. The final crimson robe whirled around, his emotionless flat facemask illuminated by the attacker's luminescent blade. In a fluid motion, he brought the staff unto the attacker's armored head, only to find its tip was absent, lying on the floor nearby and sparking erratically. Deftly ducking under the vicious blow, the attacker swung upward with his weapon, drawing a line of fire along the guardsman's long robe. He staggered backwards, his pike falling from limp fingers. The man fell to his knees, and looked up at the last thing he would ever see: a tall, menacing figure, dark as death itself.

Darth Vader nudged the fallen form with his boot, and then let out a sigh, a strange, artificial sound. It was a pity he was forced to kill these men, powerful and loyal to the Empire, but it had to be done. There had to be no witnesses, no reinforcements. Convinced the spark of life had left each of the guards, Vader took one last look around the hallway, buried deep within the uppermost level of the Imperial palace on Coruscant. The broad, dim chamber seemed to be empty and unadorned, save for the four broken soldiers and a huge door that stood beyond them. Of course there were unseen surveillance monitors lining the hall, Palpatine's intense paranoia demanded it, that were frantically beaming alerts to the palace guard, but Vader had seen to it that those signals never were received. The commander of palace security was remarkably weak-minded, and thus quite open the Sith lord's "Suggestions." The being that was once Anakin Skywalker clipped his lightsaber to his belt and approached the massive doors, bracing himself for what was to come.

Palpatine felt the guards die.

Seated upon his mighty throne, his back to the massive window he often reflected by, a grimace of annoyance crossed over the Emperor's face. Those had been his favorite of the dozens of crimson guards he had selected personally, and it would be a hassle choosing new ones. But it was a small concern to one with power and authority as great as his. Even the mightiest and most resourceful of servants could be replaced, a lesson had learned well during his rise to power. Brooding on the high pedestal, the Emperor was far more interested in the one who had killed the guardsmen. Darth Vader must be in a foul mood, even for him, Palpatine thought, waiting for the throne room door to open. Perhaps the jedi he had sensed had eluded Vader, or perhaps it was another setback in the search for young Luke Skywalker. This thought brought to Palpatine's dark mind the plan he had for the Skywalker offspring, a potential replacement for his father when the time was right. Then the massive doors began to open, and the Sith master dispelled the musings from his mind, intent on keeping his own thoughts to himself.

Through the doors Darth Vader marched, encased as always in the armor Palpatine had chosen himself, part life support system and part prison, a constant reminder to the dark warrior of all he had suffered. As the doors began to close behind the figure, Palpatine focused on Vader's opaque eye bubbles, probing his mind. As always had been the case since the discovery of his son, the Sith Lord's mind was occupied and concentrated elsewhere, but he usually hide it better when in the presence of his master. Odd, Palpatine thought, Vader's mind was also clouded, as if he was trying to keep the Emperor out, as if he was hiding something. Intriguing, the master mused as his apprenticed stopped and kneeled at the foot of Palpatine's high dais, but all would be revealed in time. No one kept secrets from the lie-monger for long.

"Rise, Lord Vader," Palpatine said, adding a sickening sugary tone to his scratchy voice. "Tell me, why have you come here unannounced?" The reason, the Emperor suspected, that his best guards lay dead in the hall was that they would not let the Dark Lord pass without an appointment, as he had failed to make. A trivial matter, but Palpatine could inspire such blind, self sacrificing loyalty in men, often with just a thought. Darth Vader was another matter entirely. Though he had served unwaveringly for more than two long decades, Palpatine had always suspected he was too free-willed to be entirely trusted. His summary executions of various admirals without consulting his master, along with a recent incident involving one of the Emperor's top advisors which had ended rather messily was evidence enough of that.

Vader rose from his submissive posture. "I have information that can be delivered only directly, my master. It is of the utmost secrecy, and a message over the holonet would have compromised it," he said steadily. An unusually vague statement for one so blunt and straightforward, Palpatine thought, his interest in the dark lord rising. "Well?" he asked expectantly. "I have destroyed the Jedi," was Vader's reply.

For a long moment, Palpatine stared at his servant, genuinely surprised by the statement. Then he began to chuckle, a cold, humorless sound. "My friend, I had thought you long past humor." Then his gaze sharpened. "Surely you would not travel to Coruscant, kill my best guards, and waste my time with news that could so simply be transmitted?" It was not a question. Most any other sentient would have withered under Palpatine's piercing gaze, but Vader stared back, resolute. What was his game, Palpatine wondered, trying to tear through the Dark Lord's barriers, but his mind remained clouded. Vader had never behaved in this manner around Palpatine before, and it was unnerving, even for one of the Emperor's power.

Darth Vader looked up at him in silence for a long moment, as if trying think of a response that would spare him his master's wrath. Then words came again. "I have destroyed the Jedi, and now I will destroy you." As punctuation to this statement, Vader's lightsaber flew from its belt to his gloved hand, igniting in a blaze of red. Palpatine's narrow eyes widened briefly, and then he regained his composure. He had foreseen this happening; it was only a matter of time. In the ancient traditions of the Sith Order, there could only be true masters of the dark side at a time, a master and apprentice. To maintain this rule of two, when the master's apprentice grew powerful enough to rival his master, he would challenge him for the position of master. If the apprentice slew his master, he would take his place and chose a new apprentice, but if he should lose, the master would slay the foolish upstart and find a new being to mold to their will. It was the way of the Sith, and had been for millennia. And Palpatine knew the cycle had begun again. He had not expected Vader to work up the nerve so soon, but the Sith Master was not concerned. He knew that defeating Vader would be a simple task, perhaps even enjoyable. Disposing of weak or disloyal was always satisfying, although finding a new apprentice would be tedious. Vader had done a very thorough job disposing of the Jedi, and force-sensitives were hard to come by. Still, there were a few candidates, maybe even the young Skywalker.

Palpatine rose from his throne slowly, his wrinkled hands falling to his sides. His shriveled, ancient appearance belied the power that lay beneath the dark robe and thin mound of old flesh that stood atop the high pedestal. "So, the time has come Lord Vader?" he asked, and then grinned wickedly, rotted teeth clearly visible. "I will of course grant you the dignity of a painful death." Rather than waste time with words, the Dark Lord tapped deeply into the well of power that was the dark side and then began to pound up the steps of Palpatine's Dais, lightsaber ready to strike. The Emperor considered drawing his own crimson lightsaber, buried deep within the folds of his robes, but disregarded the notion. That would end this contest too quickly, and he wanted Vader to see his own failure before death took him. So instead, Palpatine extended his right palm and pushed. The approaching warrior jerked to a stop, as if he had collided with solid stone. Palpatine's grin widened. Such a blast would have sent most other combatants hurtling across the chamber and into the hard walls, but Vader had managed to repel the brunt of the attack. He had trained the dark lord well. Darth Vader strained and pushed out with the Force ferociously, breaking the invisible barrier. He lunged, and brought his lightsaber down on the Emperor's head. The old man shifted out of the way faster than any being without the aid of the Force could move, and Vader's blade instead sliced through Palpatine's dark throne. Before the severed slab of metal had even touched the ground, Palpatine knocked his former apprentice of balance with the slightest push through the Force, and the armored cyborg tumbled down the many-stepped platform, scrabbling to regain his footing.

As Vader fell, the Emperor motioned for the chunk of metal lying beside him to rise and it obeyed. Just as Darth Vader had struggled to his feet, the block of durasteel hurtled towards him, guided by Palpatine's finger. The Sith lord's crimson blade intercepted the missile, sheering it in half and sending the two new pieces clattering towards the polished floor. These wayward fragments did not stay at rest however. As Vader again charged Palpatine, the two shorn fragments shot at his back like rounds from a rail gun. Vader deflected the first with an invisible wall, but the second impacted the small of his back, sending the cyborg sprawling forward with a cry of pain. However, as he tumbled onto the stone steps, his lightsaber shot from his gloved hand, a flaming missile. To his surprise, Palpatine almost missed the attack, and sidestepped out of the way just in time, Vader's blade cutting a burning gash in his black robe. "Well done Lord Vader, it seems I have taught you well," he said, his smile fading. Darth Vader ignored his former master, instead reaching out for his lightsaber, which lay on the steps nearby. The device flew into his hand and re-ignited, and he renewed his charge, causing the Emperor to begin to back away from the deadly implement. As the crimson blade of energy swept ever closer, Palpatine decided it was time to end the contest.

Darth Vader swung high, hoping to decapitate the tyrant, but Palpatine was ready. With a feral laugh, his lightsaber rocketed from the folds robes, its own blade coming alive. The two beams of energy clashed, and a molten barrier formed between the combatants. Vader was startled by the appearance of the Emperor's blade, and faltered. Taking advantage of this, the Sith Master plucked the hilt of his blade from mid air and began to hammer at his opponent. The sudden ferocity of the attack sent Vader's lightsaber spinning out of his hand. As it bounced down the stone steps, the Emperor pushed out again, sending Vader flying off the steps. However, he did not fall to the ground. Instead, Palpatine held him up like a rag doll, his left hand raised towards the ceiling, the mocking grin creeping back across his face. Vader struggled with all his brute energy, but he could not break free. Straining, the black armored titan managed to gesture towards the lightsaber in Palpatine's hand, and it began to nudge forward. "I think not," Palpatine hissed and glared at the offending hand, Vader's right. Slowly, they began to bend in on themselves, artificial fingers warping and breaking. Vader howled in rage and pain, but he was now totally immobile, at Palpatine's mercy hanging three meters of the ground.

"And now Lord Vader," Palpatine said calmly, deactivating his lightsaber, "your death will come at last. Go, and join your precious Padme Amidala. I wonder what she will think of you after all these years." Hearing these words, Vader unleashed a horrific roar, far louder than Palpatine had thought his suit was capable of relaying. Grinning, Palpatine slowly began to close his hand into a fist, and Vader's cry of rage and anguish was cut short. The twisted old man, emperor of the stars, was utterly focused on the life he held in his hands, ignoring all around him, all his plans and schemes, the throne room around him and the shadows it harbored, all momentarily forgotten. And then Palpatine was victorious. Darth Vader's mental barriers broke, and the Sith Master could see into his thoughts with effortless ease. The creature's mind was laid bare, and Palpatine could see all he wished, his motivations, his feelings for his son, his schemes to usurp power all come to naught. He had won, as he always did. Palpatine reveled in the feeling, gloried in victory, and so absorbed was he that when a beam of light erupted from his chest, he barely noticed it.

Then the burning started. A searing, life draining pain wrenched at his heart, or what had been his heart, now just a steaming hole that ran through his chest and back. "For the Order," someone whispered in his ear, and then the beam of light disappeared, leaving only a gapping, smoking chasm in his flesh. Palpatine lost his mind.

Darth Vader felt himself clatter to the ground. Steeling himself against the pain that permeated his battered form, Vader managed to rise up onto his haunches, using his crushed right hand for support. Through a cracked eye bubble, he could see Palpatine transfixed on his high platform, staring blindly into space. Behind him, Aayla Secura stood, wrenching her lightsaber out of Palpatine's back. Behind his mask, Vader managed a weak half smile; their gambit had worked. He had fought and distracted the Emperor long enough for Aayla to sneak through the shadows and position herself behind him, waiting for a moment of weakness. If Palpatine had not been so arrogant and obsessed to shame Vader, then the plan would have failed, but Darth Vader knew his master well. He waited for the twisted monster to collapse and die, but he did not.

To his horror, the twisted man turned to the Twi'lek, cackling madly. He extended his fingers, and lightning poured forth, knocking Aayla off her feet. The energy coursed into her lightsaber and down her arm, and she screamed. A sudden determination came over the wounded Sith lord as he spied his saber hilt lying on the ground beside him. Inhaling deeply to gather all the oxygen he could from damaged respirators in his suit, he took up the weapon in his left, undamaged hand, and began to limp up the stone steps atop which Palpatine stood. Hobbling up step after step, the mad emperor and the screaming Twi'lek came into view. Energy coursed over her body, and Vader could feel her fading away fast. With one final surge, the Sith Lord lurched forward, his blade crashing down on Palpatine's shriveled head. For a moment, the twisted being stood there, a sickening grin still on his cloven face, and then he fell forward, the last sparks of life emptying from him. As the corpse fell, a surge of memory flashed through Vader's mind, and he pushed with all his might against the body, sending it flapping across the chamber and into the Emperor's viewing window. Transparisteel shattered and the broken form flew out into the night sky of Coruscant. For a moment, it seemed to hang in midair, and then all of the dark energy, built up inside of Palpatine over the decades exploded forth. A wall of blue flame, a sun in the night sky erupted for an instant, and it bathed Vader and Aayla in terrible dark energy, the dark side at its purest. Then it was gone, and no sign of the Emperor's passing was left, save of a gapping hole in the side of the palace, where the energy had shorn through the durasteel skin of three stories of the massive structure.

Vader stared into the night sky through the gapping hole for a while, the revelation that his master, the one who had dominated and destroyed his life, was gone. Behind him, Aayla wheezed, and Darth Vader turned. She was lying prone on the floor, remarkably unscathed, save for her right arm, the one that had born the brunt of Palpatine's final assault. It was charred; skin blackened and seething, bones broken. Beside it lay the remains of her lightsaber, now a melted mass of metal, unrecognizable. Aayla took a deep, haggard breath and looked up at Darth Vader. "Is he dead?" Vader nodded. The Twi'lek exhaled deeply and slumped back, her eyes closed. "My purpose is served. Will you kill me now?" The Dark Lord paused. He had not planned for a time after Palpatine's defeat, and now that it was here, he did not know what to do. Slowly, it dawned on him that by killing that vile demon he had taken its place. He was lord no longer, he was master. And a master needed a student. Rising to his feet, he gathered Aayla, who had collapsed into unconsciousness, into his arms. "There is far too much yet to be done to kill you, my apprentice."


	2. Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

The planet Sullust, nestled deep within the Outer Rim, hung in space like a miniature sun. The volcanic world, home of the industrious subterranean Sullustan species, was one of the few safe havens left in the galaxy for the Rebel Alliance. And so their fleet, almost every space worthy rebel vessel, was assembled there, waiting. Waiting for what, the inhabitants of the Mon Calamari freighter did not know, but they were eager to find out. Standing on the bridge of the Coral Iris Truul, still clad in his stolen armor, watched as the ship emerged from the fiery world's dark side, his eyes alight with anticipation. The rebel was anxious to present his plan to the high command and see if they would approve it. He was sure they would, they had to. The Iris hurtled around the sphere; bring slowly into view his objective, the fleet. Hanging in high orbit were craft of all sizes, shapes, and classifications. Stolen frigates, civilian yachts, modified transports, the massive cruisers that made up the core of the force, Calamarian in design. It was truly a sight to behold, especially for a freedom fighter that had never seen more than a handful of friendly ships gathered together. Whatever they were planning, it was big.

Beside him the android Data, one of the members of Commander Riker's team, tapped a few controls on sensor panel. "I'm picking up five small craft approaching our position," he said calmly. Seated in his usual command chair, the Mon Calamari Iask, who had graciously agreed to transport them, looked at Truul expectantly. "I believe you have more experience with these people than I do, what is the proper procedure?" The rebel looked over Data's shoulder at the sensor display. "It's a fighter squad, come to check us out. Should be signaling for clearance any second now." A moment later, a voice crackled over the comm. "You are infringing on sovereign Sullustan space, identify yourselves." Iask motioned to a communications link control on his command terminal, and Truul pressed it. "This is Major Truul Besteen of the Rebel Alliance requesting clearance to rendezvous with the fleet," he said, his voice taking on a more formal air. "Security Code 0047 mark 2231-1138-567 mark Vega nine zero." As he finished rattling of the code, five small starships came into view, flying formation towards the freighter's bow. After a moment, the voice crackled back. "Welcome Major. Looks like you're just in time for the party. Mind if we escort you in?" "Not at all," Truul replied, intrigued by the pilot's statement. "If you don't mind me asking, exactly what party is about to start?" As the fighters moved to flank the freighter, the pilot chuckled. "I'll imagine you'll find out soon enough Major. Red Nine out." When the transmission cut off, Truul turned, rubbing his hands together. "Alright, everybody ashore who going ashore. We can all fit in the Jailbird, and you can get out of here," he said to Iask, who was watching the fleet grow ever closer. The Jailbird was the name he had given to the captured imperial transport that sat in the Iris's docking bay, a rather clever name Truul thought smugly. Iask thrummed his finned fingers thoughtfully. "Actually, I had considered staying around for a while. My fuel reserves were rather depleted during the recovery of your shuttle, and I had thought I might be able to re-supply here." Truul smiled understandingly. "I'll make sure they fill you up," he said. "On the house too. Least I can do. This ship here really saved our butts back there." Iask waved off the compliment, but he accepted Truul's offer. That settled, Truul head aft to collect the rest of the passengers.

Thirty minutes later, the small passenger cabin of the Jailbird was packed and ready for departure. Before heading for the cockpit, Truul made on last check on the passengers, fifteen bodies jammed into seats or standing in the small cargo area, plus Flitch, who was signaling the rebel flagship Home One to prepare a docking bay their arrival. The two-day hyperspace trek in a ship with only three sleeping quarters had been hard on the passengers, and most were eager to get off the ship, no matter what awaited them elsewhere. Truul's eyes paused on Jacen Solo (a name he seemed to remember but couldn't place), the jedi who the rebel had risked coming back to Poloon for. He had been silent and reclusive for most of the trip, and Truul didn't know what to expect of him when the high command offered the teenager a position within their ranks, as they undoubtedly would. As Picard's first officer Riker had told it, the young Jedi had lost a friend on Poloon Three, the other Jedi. Memories of Charen flashed across Truul's mind and he felt sorry for the man.

Sure that all who should be onboard was, Major Truul climbed into the cockpit and took up the pilot's position. "You got a hold of the flagship?" Truul asked, starting up the lift engines. Beside him in the copilot's chair, Flitch nodded. "Yes sir. They've cleared a space for us in the primary fighter bay," he replied, also anxious to get off the cramped Mon Cal vessel. "Then lets take her out," Truul said, cranking the orientation levers. The Lambda rose smoothly from the cargo bay as the loading doors opened, its folded wings falling into place beside its hull. The rebel fleet was abuzz with activity, fighters on patrol, supply vessels and shuttles moving from ship to ship, a constant flow of new starships joining the fleet from the planet as well as a periodic new comer emerging from hyperspace in the distance. Neither Truul nor Flitch had ever seen a rebel operation so crowded and busy.

Maneuvering a droid ship tender and over an old Corellian Corvette, the Home One came into view. It was the largest and most powerful starship the Mon Calamari had ever created, over a mile long and easily as powerful as an Imperial Star Destroyer. The MC80 cruiser was shaped like a gigantic flattened egg, covered with the characteristic sensor and weapon's budges that all Mon Cal ships were adorned with. Deep within the bowels of this mighty vessel were housed the highest levels of Alliance organization, without which the resistance would fail. Truul had never seen the ship before, but the main fighter bay wasn't difficult to locate, and Truul began to bring his shuttle in.

Onboard the Home One's flight deck, numerous technicians bustled about, refueling and maintaining the various starfighters that were docked there. Landings and take offs from the bay were very common, so no one gaze a second thought to the alarms that signaled the landing of another ship. However, when the landing ship began to pass through the bay's atmospheric containment shield, an R5 droid, who was examining a micro fracture in the hull of a snub-nosed A-Wing fighter, took notice. Seeing the Imperial ship, the small droid whistled in surprise, attracting the attention of other beings around him. Although the rebels had managed to capture Lambda class shuttlecraft, one of which was sitting in that very bay, the arrival of one unannounced was cause for concern. The flight deck controller, a stocky woman in stained combat fatigues, looked over her docking schedule quizzically, and then moved slowly towards the ship, which was landing on an empty patch of deck plate. Two of the on duty guards followed her, their blaster pistols nervously drawn from hip holsters. With a puff of steam, the shuttle's landing ramp descended, and two men walked down it. The flight controller looked them over. "Major Besteen?" The older of the two nodded, his ponytail waggling. "That's me," he said, and then noticed the weary soldiers behind her. "What's the matter with them?" The controller glanced at her schedule datapad again. "Well Major, you failed to report that you were arriving in a seized Imperial Shuttle. Naturally, we were concerned."

"Oh," Truul said. "Forgot about that, sorry." The controller nodded uneasily and then sighed. "Well, I've been informed that Commander Tregel wants to speak with you immediately. Rolan and Sernn will take you to him," she said, gesturing at the guards behind her. Commander Tregel was the one who had sent Truul and his squad on their infiltration mission in the first place, a hard-nosed Twi'lek who usually operated around Ord Mantell. High Command must have recalled him like everyone else. Truul imagined he'd furious at him for aborting the mission, but hopefully the people who Truul had recovered would make up for it, and get him a meeting with the High Command.

As the soldiers eased of their pistols, Truul gestured to Flitch. "Get the everybody off the ship, they'll probably want to see them right away." The young rebel nodded and scrambled back up the ramp. "What others? I was informed that there were only three of…" the flight deck controller trailed off as the passengers began to offload. Stamping down the ramp surrounded by various unremarkable humanoids were three towering beings, each easily as tall as a full-grown Wookiee and larger still. As Master Chief, the Arbiter, and Tassadar, surrounded by the Federation officers stepped onto the rebel cruiser's deck plate, the three crewmen drew back in surprise, their hands gripping pistols once more. Noting their reactions, Truul grinned. "It's a long story." The flight controller gaped at the group. "I'm sure it is," she said, motioning to the guards. "Escort them to the debriefing rooms. And keep an eye on them." The two soldiers confirmed the order and sized up the more imposing of their charges. "Follow us Major," one of them, Sernn, said, gesturing to a door that lead off the crowded bay. Truul nodded and motioned to a bald man who stood among the disembarked passengers. "Lets go captain. Politics awaits." The group moved across the bay and out into the adjoining hall quickly, drawing curious glances from rebel techs and droids alike.

The interior of the star cruiser was very similar to Iask's vessel, clean and white, the walls and doors designed with disorienting curves that suited the Amphibious species' unusual eye structure. As they walked down long hallways, the Federation officers observed their surroundings with curiosity. Crewmen of all species and gender skirted past the group with little interest, absorbed in their duties and used to crossing paths with exotic beings how found their way into the Alliance daily. The Emperor's campaigns of discrimination, slavery, and genocide targeted them the most, and members of a thousand species fought along side the rebels for a future that might allow them to live free and unfettered by Imperial prejudice. Picard and his crew, especially those who had not journeyed to Poloon Three, observed snout-nosed Kubaz, reptilian Barabels and Ishi Tib, the fold-faced Sullustans, and many others with curiosity and wonder. The aliens of their galaxy, Romulans, Klingons, Ferengi and the like would not doubt be just as fascinating to the humans upon first contact, but they were ordinary elements in their lives, and this experience was entirely new.

Unlike their human counterparts, the Arbiter and Lt. Worf eyed each passerby, looking upon them as a possible threat. The fact that both had been cooped together for two uneasy nights in the Coral Iris's cargo bay for the lack of available bunks didn't help matters, and both were in bad moods. Jacen was also dower, marching along silently, but for very different reasons. The loss of Aayla still bit at him, and he couldn't help feeling like he had abandoned her. No amount of consoling from Riker or the empath Deanna Troi could assuage his guilt and sorrow. What made the loss all the worse was that Jacen knew his own family had been responsible for her death. Back on that hangar pad, he had felt him, his grandfather, Darth Vader. Jacen had been born long after the sith's redemption and death, but he knew it was him. The shock of feeling the presence, almost a distorted version of himself, had been too much to bear, and Jacen had collapsed, and Aayla had died because of it. He knew Aayla had died, he felt her light in the force go out while he lay prone in the arms of Master Chief on the Mon Cal's ship. A single tear trickled down the young Jedi's cheek as he walked through the rebel ship's halls. So absorbed in this guilt was he that he paid little heed to the surroundings, a place and time that the historians of the New Republic would kill to witness. Nor did he heed the tiny inkling in his senses, the faintest feeling that someone he knew very well was approaching.

The rebel soldiers Sernn and Rolan finally halted in front of a dead end passage lined with sliding doors. "Commander Tregel is waiting for you in there sir," Sernn said, gesturing to one of the unremarkable doors. Truul nodded stiffly, fidgeted with the Imperial armor he noted was distinctly out of place on the rebel vessel, and stepped through the waiting doors. Now with only Flitch as an anchor to the ship, the group of escapees grew uncomfortable. The two rebel guards still had their hands on their blasters, ready to react to any sudden hostile movement from their charges. It struck the Master Chief odd, however, that there was not more visible security watching over them, especially considering they were on the Alliance flagship. "Cortana," he said softly into his helmet. "Try to tap into the ship's system. See if there are any other security measures in place on this deck." The construct replied dryly. "Planning an escape are we?" The Spartan patted the empty holster on his leg contemplatively. At Truul's advisement, all of the passengers had left their weaponry onboard the Jailbird. "Just keeping our options open," he replied. Cortana snuffed. "Well, in any event, I don't think me looking about in here is a particularly good idea right now. I have no idea what kind of counter-measures the computer system has in place, and if they discover me poking around, you might just need that gun of yours." Resigned, the Chief nodded in recognition.

Standing next to the armored soldier, Data was about to comment on the Chief's soundless head movements when muffled shouting emerged from the chamber Truul had entered. The android cocked his head, attempting to discern what was going on inside. Beside him, Captain Picard leaned closer. "What's going on in there Mr. Data?" he asked quietly, his eyes still focused on their rebel escorts. "It's difficult to determine Captain. However, I believe that Major Besteen is being berated by his superior. It would seem," Data stopped short. Picard glanced at him inquisitively. "It would seem what Data?" The android shook his head. "The shouting has ceased. I can not make out anymore of the conversation," he replied, frowning. Just as Data finished saying this, the debriefing room doors flew open and a rebel officer skittered out. He was a relatively short, tallow-skinned Twi'lek, his face still flustered from the tongue-lashing he had been giving his subordinate about dereliction of duty. "Which one of you is the Jedi?" he asked breathlessly. The crowd parted slightly, revealing the preoccupied young knight, startled out of his thoughts by the rebel officer. Sighing, Jacen stepped forward.

Several decks above, a tired woman took a sip of stimcaf. Letting the warm liquid wind its way down her throat, she leaned back in her form-chair, its memory cells reconfiguring to better suit its owner's new posture. The woman closed her eyes, trying to sort the plans, thoughts, concerns that were flashing through it, deluging her like a Kamino rainstorm. Mon Mothma, leader of the Rebel Alliance, had the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders.

She was a pleasant woman with short, red hair and mild features etched with the creases of lengthen years and constant worry. Hardly the look one would expect of the head of the splinter organization that had posed an increasingly destabilizing threat to Palpatine's Empire over the last half a dozen years. Mon Mothma had never intended to become a revolutionary, instead becoming the representative from Chandrila in the Galactic Senate during the waning days of the Old Republic, content to fit in with the political establishment. However, at the end of the Clone Wars, when Supreme Chancellor Palpatine had declared himself Emperor and began his "New Order" of tyranny and genocide, Mothma had left the Senate in disgust and outrage. And so she had begun to tie the various terrorists and rebel cells that began to spring up over the decades, coordinating them into an effective and cohesive group. She had become the defacto, if somewhat unwilling, leader of the organization, along with a council of other cell leaders and Imperial defectors. Mon Mothma had never wanted to become its heart and leader, but once she had, she was determined to see the fledgling organization through to victory and the realization of its noble goals. In her mind, and on the data screens and flimsi-sheets scattered around her, lay the key, she hoped, to that victory.

The fleet had assembled because of the information that was displayed before her, information that could change the galaxy. The Bothan spy net, an extensive intelligence network secretly allied with the rebellion, had recently recovered top secret Imperial data confirming that the Empire was constructing a new, larger version of the fearsome Death Star, kin to the one the one that Rogue Squadron pilot and Jedi knight Luke Skywalker had destroyed over Yavin 4, the victory that had turned the rebellion around. The information, paid for heavily in Bothan lives, a fact that Mon Mothma could not forget, placed the battle station in the remote Endor system. The station was not yet operational, its planet-annihilating superlaser and shield generators were not completed, it's only defense a shielding base on the surface of the moon it was orbiting. A target that the Alliance could not afford to pass up, especially considering that the Emperor himself was scheduled to be onboard to oversee its completion. Rubbing her brow to clear her mind, the rebel leader knew it was the last chance for the Alliance, with this new Death Star, lacking the fatal flaw that had been the undoing of its predecessor, the Empire would be unstoppable.

Sighing deeply, Mon Mothma opened her eyes and returned to the files strewn before her. She was in the process of approving Admiral Ackbar's planned assault on the Imperial fortress. The Mon Calamari, commander of the rebel fleet, in collaboration with Imperial defector Crix Madine, had proposed a two-pronged attack. A small strike force, using the stolen Imperial shuttle Tydirium, would infiltrate the shielding base and destroy it. Then, with the station defenseless, the rebel fleet would jump in, and form a perimeter against any defending Imperial cruisers as a squadron of fighter craft penetrated the uncompleted superstructure. They would fly to the core and detonate the Death Star's hypermatter reactor, destroying the titanic abomination, along with the Imperial leadership onboard. Without their tyrant, the power hungry local admirals and governors would tear the Empire apart, and the Rebel Alliance could attain victory. The plan was risky, and they would lose many fine soldiers, but if it worked, the galaxy would be free once more.

Just as the woman was about to send her final approval to Admiral Ackbar, a small comm unit inlaid in her desk chimed. Pushing off the scattered data pads that covered it, Mon Mothma keyed the response key. "Yes?" she asked in a quiet, refined voice. "Madame Mothma, the Millennium Falcon has arrived," the voice responded. The rebel leader furrowed her brow. "And General Solo?" "Yes ma'am, he's onboard." The voice replied. Mon Mothma sighed in relief. Several of the best leaders and fighters in the rebellion had traveled to Tatooine to rescue General Solo from the clutches of the crime lord Jabba the Hutt, including Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa. If they had been killed, or lost the General, it would have been a resounding blow to the Alliance. "Very good. Have them briefed about tomorrow's conference." The meeting was to alert the fleet commanders to the upcoming operation's specifics, and was to be held in the Home One's main briefing area, on the same deck as Mon Mothma's office. The rebel on the other end of the line acknowledged the order and shut off the channel.

Mon Mothma glanced longingly at the bed palate that lay across her quarters, beckoning to her. She had barely slept for a week, too possessed with the preparations for the make or break operation. Looking back at the fleet distribution charts and intelligence reports on her desk, she began to consider passing off the rest to Ackbar and Madine, they knew more about such things than she did after all, and all they needed was her approval. Then she shook her head violently, shaking of the thoughts. No, she needed to make sure everything was prepared as perfectly as possible; soldiers wouldn't die needlessly just because she needed a nap. However, as she was about to go back to the preparations, the comm panel beeped again. Sighing exasperatedly, she keyed it on. "Yes?"

"Sorry to disturb you again ma'am, but there is a Commander Tregel who wishes to speak with you immediately," the voice replied. "About what?" The voice paused before continuing. "He says that one of his agents brought aboard a group of people you and the Command might be interested in seeing. He says one of them" the man stopped again. "One of them is a what?" Mon Mothma asked, leaning forward in her chair. The man on the comm cleared his throat. "He says one of them is a Jedi, and not General Skywalker." Mon Mothma looked at the communication panel with astonishment. "Who did he say the others were?" Another pause. "I think you should probably hear the rest from him ma'am."

Admiral Ackbar was no doubt the greatest tactical mind in the rebellion, and a loyal and reasoned officer. He was as staunch a rebel as any could be, his watery homeworld on the verge of Imperial borne annihilation and he himself a former Imperial slave, once servant of the infamous Grand Moff Tarkin. The Mon Calamari had turned the rag tag Alliance Fleet into an efficient and organized fighting force, and had more than a few victories under his belt. However, despite all of his good qualities, he was hardly what anyone would call open-minded, a firm believer in tradition and a skeptic of anything he himself couldn't see. That is why he sat with his arms crossed on the lowest tier of the Home One's main Conference Chamber, staring impetuously at the bald human male standing in the center of the room. Beside him sat the fellow members of the Alliance High Command, Mon Mothma, Crix Madine, General Rieekan, and a few others, all with varying melds of fascination and confusion on their faces. Ackbar, however, was not so easily swayed. This human, along with a rebel officer who had somehow managed to become a major, had been spouting a preposterous tale about wormholes and alternate dimensions, and a mystical, benevolent organization known as the Federation that could help them in their fight against the Empire. The admiral had better things to be doing, namely preparing for the assault on the Death Star, an operation far more worthy of his undivided attention then this fairy tale. It was beyond him how his human counterparts could be so easily interested by such an obvious fabrication. The fact that the major had recovered a jedi was a feat to be applauded, but this young human, seated silently on one of the upper tiers of the amphitheater-like chamber, hardly seemed like he could be counted on at the moment for any military operation, introverted and unaccustomed to Alliance protocols. They hadn't even given his name yet.

There was a lull in the bald man's speech, and Ackbar took the opportunity to rise. He began to head for the nearest exit, but a voice from behind stopped him. "Admiral, I do not believe they were done." It was Mon Mothma's voice, infuriatingly calm. Locking his shoulders, the amphibian turned to the turned to the rebel leader. "Excuse my rudeness Mon Mothma, but I have more important matters to attend to. I'm sure this… conference can be completed without my presence." The woman looked into his huge, black eyes. "I'm sure they wont be much longer Admiral, you can wait." The Mon Calamari sighed in descent, but took his seat nonetheless. Mon Mothma turned back to the presenters, who were waiting in nervous silence. "I believe you were discussing the possibility of a military compact between the Alliance and the Federation. Please, continue."

In the corridor outside of the Briefing Room, a young communications officer pushed through two other officers and continued scurrying down the hall. The two humans looked after the squat Sullustan, wondering what could compel his short legs to move so swiftly. His face flaps waggling, the man dove past astromech droids and alarmed rebels alike, his mind set on his target. When he finally reached the appropriate doors, he slid to a stop and ran through it, almost colliding with the tall reptilian standing on the other side. He tripped and tumbled down the short flight of stairs beyond, past tiers of seats. His dense, low-slung body perpetuated the fall, and he rolled all the way down, landing in an undignified heap at the foot of the steps. Several humans moved to help him up, but he scrambled to his feat, large eyes fixed on the objective, Mon Mothma. "Emperor Palpatine is dead!"


	3. Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty-one

"…_and we repeat our top story, at 2:35 this morning, our benevolent lord and Emperor was killed. A team of ruthless rebel terrorists was able to infiltrate the Imperial Palace in the heart of the capital and detonate a baridum explosive inside our glorious leader's throne chamber. The blast killed Emperor Palpatine instantly, and the terrorists would have proceeded to destroy the entire structure, killing hundreds of thousands of innocent government employees if was not for the valiant actions of Lord Darth Vader, who was consulting with the Emperor at the time. Lord Vader was able to personally slay all of the murderous traitors and halt their insidious plot."_

Assembled in the Home One's main communications blister, the High Command and those they had been giving an audience to stared in shock at the holonet transceiver that dominated the chamber's center. Cast in bluish light, a frazzled looking human woman was talking swiftly, images of the damaged Imperial Palace displayed behind her. _"Sate Pestage, one of the late Emperor's closest advisors, made this announcement only a few hours ago," _the anchorwoman was saying as a new 3-D image filled the air around the projector It was the figure of an old, miserly-looking man in dressed in grand robes and a tall miter, his leathery face gaunt. _"Following this horrendous act of terrorism, the Imperial Advisory Council and myself have selected Lord Darth Vader, our dear ruler's closest confidant and Commander of the Fleet, to rule in Emperor Palpatine's stead. He has vowed to carry on our departed highness's work of bringing unity and peace to the galaxy and to eliminate the Rebel terrorist threat. The death of our Supreme and just ruler is certainly a great blow to our New Order, but his legacy will not fall with him. Let those who would stand against peace and justice know that they will pay for this crime. Our new Lord shall not stop until every one of you has been brought to justice. Glory to the Empire!" _

The projection switched back to the anchorwoman. _"As a show of solidarity and respect for the late Emperor, mandatory mourning services at the following locations across Coruscant and the core worlds are to be held tomorrow…" _As images of city blocks packed with mourners and watchful Imperial soldiers made their way across the screen, Mon Mothma crossed her arms. "Well, this certainly changes the dynamic of the war." That was quite an understatement. With Darth Vader at the helm, no one could now how the Empire would operate. Although Vader was portrayed as a ruthless and destructive killer, reveling in the deaths of entire species even to Imperial citizens, the High Command knew that Vader was simply Palpatine's lackey, carrying out his whims. There was no way to know what he would do with the leash removed. "I was never informed of an operation such as this," Admiral Ackbar commented, his eyes swiveling to take in his comrades. Crix Madine, director of Alliance Intelligence, scratched his short beard. "Neither was I Admiral. The Imperial Palace is unassailable, the most heavily guarded structure in the galaxy. No assassination attempt there could ever succeed," the Imperial defector said, shaking his head. "And yet, it would appear one has," Mon Mothma commented, still processing the startling news. "Unless of course, this some sort of elaborate fabrication, meant to lure us out." Crix shook his head. "No ma'am, the Empire would gain anything from faking Palpatine's death, and they know it. Whoever killed him, the Emperor is dead."

As the rebel leaders conversed, Picard and Riker looked on in confusion. "What's going on?" Riker asked quietly. Beside him, Truul was looking over an ensign's shoulder at the holo-projector. "Looks like that crazy fiekirk Palpatine has tasted space," he said, grinning. Captain Picard frowned. "What does that mean for your rebellion?" Truul shrugged. "Don't really know. Who knows if Vader can keep his bloated rancor of an Empire together?"

"Vader?" Picard asked. Before Truul could respond, Lt. Commander Data, who was watching the scene around him with interest, spoke up. "I believe Major Besteen is referring to one Darth Vader. While analyzing the databank on Captain Iask's starship, I came across his name. Evidently he is a high ranking imperial officer of some infamy, and took an active role the genocide of the Jedi Order that Jacen Solo discussed on the Enterprise." Truul nodded. "Yeah, Vader's done a lot of that. Falleen, Hoth, heck, some even say he's responsible for Alderaan. Without his master tying him down, who knows what he might do."

By now, the High Command members had finished their short conference and were beginning to exit. As she passed, Mon Mothma turned to Picard. "I apologize Captain, but we will have to delay our meeting. As you can see there are several new matters that need to be attended to. In the mean time, I'm sure the Admiral can locate quarters for you and your crew." Picard smiled. "Of course, we wouldn't want to interfere." Mon Mothma returned his smile and walked away, her mind clearly on other things. Riker frowned as she moved off. "Don't you think we should press to continue the meeting? If we wait to long, both the wormhole and the Torrent could be gone." Picard sighed and shook his head. "I understand your concerns Number One, I share them. But were on their ship, their terms. We can't push them."

The communications room, which had filled with curious passersby and various other rebel officers, was slowly beginning to drain as they moved away to return to their duties and spread the surprising news. Jacen noted that the others in his group were too flittering out of the small space, and he moved to follow. As he worked his way between aliens and humans excitedly discussing the recent events, he could help but feel that there was something wrong with the situation, a feeling he had picked up when Pestage had mentioned Darth Vader. Engrossed in these thoughts, Jacen barely noticed those around him as they jostled for the exit. Just as he reached the narrow doorway, a large, furry shape materialized in front of him. Bouncing of it, Jacen looked up and was forming the words for an apology when he caught sight of the hairy pedestrian's face. The words caught in his throat. Before him stood someone he had thought he would never see again.

On the bridge of the Star Destroyer Torrent, Captain Coloth nervously smoothed his uniform, looking out into space. It had been less than three days since Picard had escaped and the Captain had sent for further instructions, and Meterin had not expected an answer for at least a week. Considering the chaos that had been caused by the Emperor's death a day later, information that had left the crew shaken, he had fully expected to wait for months sitting in this barren patch of vacuum with a hold full of prisoners. However, here he was, with the orders he sought making their way up the command deck turbolift. One might have expected the Captain to be relieved at not having to wait an eternity for a new mission assignment, but then again, most mission assignments aren't delivered personally by the Lord of the Sith.

From across the expansive command area, Coloth heard the hum of the turbolift as it arrived and opened, and taking a deep breath, he turned to face it. As Darth Vader emerged from the lift, a wave of unease rippled through the bridge crew. The black armored Naval Guards stood straighter at their posts, eyes locked ahead. Down in the crew pits, technicians fidgeted nervously and tried to focus on their control displays. Draped in his long, black cloak, Vader made his way quickly along the center of the bridge, to where Meterin waited. He had never personally met the dark lord, but from what he had heard about him, personal visits were not usually cause for celebration. To the Captain's surprise, rather than coming alone or being flanked by stormtrooper enforcers, a slender Twi'lek female tailed Vader, dressed in black with an elbow-length glove covering her right arm. She was quite attractive, more so than most of the few female crewers that populated the Torrent, but there was something unsettling about her.

As Darth Vader halted in front of him, the Captain was snapped back to attention. Bowing curtly, he began to speak. "Greetings Lord Vader. I am honored that you would find time…" Before he could finish, Vader cut him off. "Enough of these formalities, Captain. I require an explanation." His voice was dark and methodical, interspersed by mechanical breathing. Beneath his officer's cap, Meterin's scalp began to bead with cold sweat. "My lord, after the late Emperor rerouted the Torrent's patrol route to this location, we detected…" Again Vader cut him off. "I have read your report Captain Coloth. I want to know why you allowed the prisoners to escape." Coloth gulped, trying not to look away from Vader's menacing facemask. "I am sorry, but the situation was out of my control. There was no way of knowing that there were rebel inflitr-" Even as the Captain spoke, Vader motioned with a gloved hand.

Coloth stopped speaking suddenly, as if an invisible vice was crushing his throat. He clutched at his throat and began to gag as the muscles in his neck constricted. The Captain attempted to speak, but only a wheezing sound emerged, and he felt the life ebbing from him as his oxygen-starved brain began to shut down. At last, as he could bear it no longer and his eyes began to bulge outwards, Darth Vader dropped his hand, disrupting the invisible noose around Coloth's neck. The Captain almost collapsed, leaning against his observation window as fresh oxygen flowed back through his bruised neck. The Dark Lord allowed the gasping man to recover for a moment before speaking again. "I do not tolerate failure Captain. Consider this a warning." Regaining some composure, Coloth nodded and then quickly bowed in submission. "I will not fail you again Lord Vader."

The Sith Lord looked from the flustered officer off into space out off the view port, into the starry blackness beyond the Star Destroyer's massive hull. Vader stared for a long while, and the Captain chanced a glance in the direction of his gaze. "My Lord?" Darth Vader shifted his helmeted head back to Coloth, as if snapped out of a trance. Behind him, the Twi'lek fidgeted, evidently noting the odd behavior as well. "Have you located this wormhole your prisoners emerged through?" he asked suddenly. Coloth frowned slightly. "Yes, but before we could send a probe droid through it or adequately chart its dimensions, the anomaly disappeared. Our sensor sweeps of the area have turned up no other occurrences." Vader's mask gave away no emotion, but Meterin could tell he was displeased with the news. He braced himself for another assault, but one did not come. After taking a few more mechanical breaths, Vader turned from him, his black cape brushing the metal floor. "Continue your interrogations of the prisoners, my apprentice will assist you if need be. I will send further instructions in a few days." Coloth glanced uncomfortably at the blue woman Vader had mentioned. He had thought that the dark lord was the last of his kind, save of course the infamous Luke Skywalker. How could this woman be what he said she was? She seemed to notice the Captain gazing at her, and she shot him a withering, malevolent look. Taking the hint, Coloth looked away quickly, sweat seeping through his pores once more.

Satisfied that the Imperial had averted his gaze, Aayla looked after her new master. Her mind was still jumbled and distracted with the events of the past days and the blistered skin on her arm, which still oozed and stung. However, she had enough access to her thoughts to know that she had been profoundly changed by the confrontation with Palpatine; she just couldn't place how. "Where are you going?" she asked, surprising the crewers within earshot with the informality of her question. However, Vader did not rebuke her, or even turn around. As he headed for the turbolift doors, he replied coolly. "There have been reports of a rebel fleet massing near Sullust. I intend to investigate them." And with that, the Dark Lord was gone.


	4. Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Standing in the middle of the comm room's exit, Chewbacca was quite bewildered. After the Millennium Falcon had safely docked and Lando Calrissian and Leia Organa had ushered the recently rescued Han Solo of for a much-needed check in the Medical Bay, the Wookiee had gone off in search of something to eat. Noticing an excited stream of people moving into the Comm area, he had followed. The rebel was enthusiastic about the implications of Palpatine's demise, but more pressing concerns had again filled his mind. However, before the Wookiee could move to find a mess hall, this young, strangely familiar human had accosted him and was at present wrapped around his hairy body in an embrace. Chewbacca made a few plaintive sounds and gingerly tried removing the human, but to no avail.

Jacen Solo clung onto the confused Wookiee with all his strength, tears beginning to well in his eyes. In his time, the kind and faithful Chewbacca, as much a part of his family as brother and sister, had died in the first onslaught of the Yuuzhan Vong campaign to conquer the galaxy. It had taken a moon ripped from the orbit of Sernpidal by a Yuuzhan Vong gravity weapon crashing down on him to extinguish the defiant Wookiee, but he had died nonetheless, and the loss had nearly torn the Solo family apart. Han had never fully recovered. But here, in this time and place, Chewbacca was alive, and Jacen for a moment forgot about the wormhole, and the Federation officers, and even Aayla, enveloped by Chewie's warm fur. It took the arrival of another unexpected and welcome being for him to break lose.

"Chewbacca? Chewbacca, at last I've found you," a prissy voice said from behind the Wookiee. "You really shouldn't run of to who knows where like that. Why if master Solo ever… oh my." A golden, humanoid protocol droid came into view, appraising the situation with his photoceptors. He was scuffed and sported more dings and scratches than Jacen was used to seeing, but he was recognizable all the same. "Threepio!" the young Jedi exclaimed, disengaging from Chewbacca and clasping one of the droid's smooth arms. "I never thought I would be so happy to see you!" This statement seemed to encourage him. "Why thank you sir, at least someone around here is glad to see me, although I'm quite sure I've never made our acquaintance. I am See-Threepio, human-cyborg relations and…" An irritated growl from Chewbacca halted the droid's greeting. The Wookiee mumbled something in his native tongue. "Actually," Threepio responded, "Master Solo did send me out here. He made some reference to not wanting a sack of bolts rattling around while he was resting, although I'm not sure if I quite understood…" This time, it was Jacen who interrupted. "My father's onboard?" he said, forgetting himself. This caused Threepio to tilt his head to one side. "I'm not sure what you mean sir." Then it came back to Jacen. Of course, none of them would or even could recognize him. He wouldn't even be born for another half dozen years. The excitement of seeing familiar faces had jilted his memory, but he was slowly coming back into focus, and the ever-present thoughts of Aayla again filled his mind.

Jacen felt a hand alight on his shoulder and turned to see Riker behind him. The two had barely spoken since the disaster on Poloon. "Admiral Ackbar had designated quarters for us. Just wanted to let you know the rest of us are moving out." His voice was calm and brotherly, and despite the altercation after boarding the Coral Iris for the first time, the Commander had grown to respect the young Jedi. "You go on, I've have some things to do right now," Jacen replied, nodding to the bewildered droid and Wookiee. Riker looked them over for a moment, nodded, and then rejoined the group of guests, who were moving off down the hall. "My, I don't believe I've ever observed species like that before," See-Threepio commented, watching Tassadar and the Arbiter walk out of view.

Jacen too watched them disappear around the bend, and then sighed. He wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do, but something deep within him was compelling him to seek out Leia and Han, his yet to be parents. Remembering Master Luke's axiom about trusting in one's feelings, he resigned himself to the unusual meeting ahead. The thought crossed his mind that Luke would in fact be showing up on this ship as well quite soon. _That_ would be an unusual meeting.

In the outermost reaches of the Sullust system, a trio of small craft sailed through the emptiness. The X-Wings, the most versatile fighters in the rebel fleet, coasted along gently, flying side by side in a loose formation. This squad like the numerous others patrolling the out reaches of the system served as early warning and defense craft. If a stray Imperial probe or scout were to wander into sensor range of the fleet, it would be the fighter's job to signal the command ship and try to take out the threat before it could escape into hyperspace. Fortunately, the posting had been quite, not so much as a sensor anomaly appearing for weeks, save for the periodic Alliance reinforcements that were hurrying to join the assault force. The patrol route was monotonous and boring, with nothing to do but talk with your wing mates. And after eight-hour shifts day after day for nearly half a month, no one had much left to say.

The endless task was all the worse for the squad leader, Colonel Hek'lya, a brown-furred Bothan who was well known to be just a little bit crazy when their were Tie Fighters about. However, with the nearest Imperial ship light-years away, he was lethargic, drifting in and out of a doze as his astromech, mounted in a slot at the top of the vessel, twittered about a coolant regulator that was not functioning at one hundred percent. His wing mates were also quiet, perhaps even asleep. X-Wing pilots were well known energetic and animated when there was something to outmaneuver or blow up, but in circumstances like this one, even the most lively individual is bound to loose consciousness, and let the droid take over the controls.

So it came as a surprise when a voice crackled over the comm channel. "Hey leader, are you scanning sector Omega-2?" The voice was husky and female, from a human woman with the call sign Wasp on his starboard flank. Rubbing his eyes with bony hands, Hek'lya keyed the response channel. "No, I'm not." He yawned. "Why?" After a moment the woman responded. "Something just appeared on passive scanning, couple million klicks out. The Colonel tugged on his wispy scruff of a beard. Maybe something was finally happening. "Hold on, I'll check," he said, and then ordered his R2 unit to direct a scan to the correct coordinates. The droid sputtered something and a series of words scrawled across the cockpit display panel. The Bothan sat bolt upright, his beady eyes taking in the information displayed there. "Thread, wake up," he ordered, opening up a new comm line. From the port X-Wing came the reply. "I'm awake Lead, what's the situation?" the voice of a male human came, obviously groggy. "Notify fleet were picking up an Imperial signal in sector Omega-2 and are moving to investigate," Hek'lya continued, beginning to throttle his fighter's drive. "Ship class unknown." The sleepiness in Thread's voice disappeared as he confirmed and began relaying the message.

The three ships closed formation and rocketed off towards the source of the signal, the laser cannon tipped wings on each ship splitting to form the distinctive X shape the craft was known for as they entered attack mode. With the trio racing towards it, the target didn't take to long to be identified. "Skipray 015," Wasp reported as the specs appeared on her heads up display. "Unescorted." The gunboat was a small, lightly armored five man craft that packed the firepower of a ship triple its size. This model, however, was a stripped down version, lacking the punch of its standard model but modified with enhanced hyperspace engines and a long-range sensor suite, perfect for recon missions. A manic grin creased Hek'lya's snout face as he locked onto the ship with a proton torpedo. The scout ship was no match for the three combat fighters, and they would be on it before it could jump back to report to its home cruiser. "Lock torpedoes and fire on my mark," the Bothan ordered as they came into range of the enemy craft, which has beginning to train its scaled down weapons on the pursuers. As the first green bolts erupted from the gunship and etched past the fighters, Hek'lya thumbed the stud on his control rig. "Fire!" As the deadly missiles from each craft blasted from their tubes and raced towards the scout ship, which was flaring its drives in an attempt to escape, something unexpected happened. Two new shapes emerged from seemingly nowhere, tearing free of the nothingness of hyperspace, one of them right in the path of the streaking projectiles. The three torpedoes exploded, smashing harmlessly into particle shields. "Pull up!" the Bothan screamed in alarm as the new ship loomed directly ahead. The three tiny craft peeled of in separate directions, desperately firing maneuvering thrusters to slow their approach. This was not the fight Hek'lya had expected.

Jacen walked quickly through the halls in the direction C-3PO had indicated. Following close behind was the still perplexed Chewbacca and behind him an equally bewildered golden Protocol droid struggling to keep up. "Really sir, I must protest. Mistress Leia and Master Solo were quite adamant about being left alone," he cried plaintively. Jacen however pressed onward. Passing down a few long hallways and through a turbolift, Jacen finally found his way to the room C-3PO had indicated. Taking a deep breath, the jedi reached for the door control panel, but found something holding him back. What would doing this, meeting with his future do to affect them? Temporal and dimensional physics were not one of Jacen's strong suites, but he knew that bring such a startling revelation could have drastic repercussions, if not to him then too what might become him in this world. And yet somehow going in there, meeting with his parents again felt right. Down the hall, Chewie and C-3PO were drawing closer. Jacen was frozen, trapped between two choices, his finger hovering over the door control. Then the decision was made for him.

Overhead, alarm klaxons suddenly blared. Around Jacen, rebels halted, surprised by the sound, and then ran off to their stations. The Wookiee and the droid had also stopped, and Chewbacca was growling apprehensively. Then the doors before Jacen slid open and he slipped instinctively to the side. Out came Han Solo, pulling on a black jacket and tucking a blaster into his hip holster, with Leia Organa close behind. Jacen shrunk up against the wall, and the two passed without a second glance. He watched as the two who would be his parents passed down the hall, Chewbacca and C-3PO falling in with them. As they disappeared beyond a bend in the white hallway, the protocol droid cast one last curious glance at Jacen and then vanished from sight.

"What's the situation Admiral?" Mon Mothma asked, looking up at the Mon Cal as he sat on the command platform of the Home One's bridge. The Admiral gestured solemnly to a large tactical screen set in the bridge wall, officers and technicians frantically moving around underneath. On it was displayed two long, rectangular vessels, their positions displayed on a chart below. "Two Carrack class Imperial cruisers," Ackbar stated. "They jumped in beyond the system's outermost planet, and destroyed one of our patrols." Mon Mothma frowned deeply. "Options?" Ackbar let out a wheezy sigh. "We need to evacuate the fleet before they can contact reinforcements. The Redemption is awaiting your arrival." It was customary to break up the rebel leadership when it was in danger of discovery. "What about the Sullustans?" a voice from behind them asked. Ackbar and Mothma turned to see Lando Calrissian, tired from his ordeal on Tatooine, but ready for battle. "We can't abandon them." Ackbar shook his head. "There is no time. I have contacted the planetary authorities, and they are moving as many civilians as possible in private vehicles and moving the rest into the deeper planetary tunnels. There is nothing more we can do." Calrissian was about to object, but Mon Mothma placed a hand on his shoulder. "This was their choice, and their prepared to accept the repercussions. The most we can do is live to fight another day, its what they sacrificed for." Even as she said these words, she didn't believe them. The thought of another planet laid waste by Imperial retribution was almost more than the leader could bear, and if it were only her life that would be risked, she would defend the planet to the last ship. But there was more at stake, far more. The General's dark eyes looked into hers for a long moment and he relented.

Satisfied the outburst had past, Admiral Ackbar turned back to his work. "Order the personnel transports and assault groups B, C, and E to prepare for jumps to the secondary rendezvous location," he dictated to the various officers around him, most of them Mon Calamari. As they set to work contacting the other craft in the fleet, Ackbar swiveled his command chair back towards Mon Mothma. "I suggest you and your staff shuttle to the Redemption immediately. Gray squadron will be tasked to escort you out of system." Mon Mothma nodded briskly and entered one of the bridge turbolifts. When she had disappeared, Ackbar turned to Lando. "General Calrissian, I would like you to take command of the Red and Gold squadrons. They will be defending the Sullustan evac craft until the rest of the fleet departs. We'll stay as long as we can." Surprised by the Admiral's unexpected acquiescence to his concerns, the dark skinned pilot grinned and gave a small salute. It would be more prudent to evacuate all their assets swiftly and cut the potential of loses when the Imperials inevitably arrived in force, but evidently the Admiral also had a place in his heart for the planet that had harbored them. "I'd be happy to Admiral," Lando said as he too headed for a turbolift.

Several decks below, the group of Federation officers found themselves stranded and out of the loop again. When the alarm klaxons had started to go off, their guide had disappeared, leaving them in the middle of a hallway crowded with rebels rushing to their posts. Exasperated about being ignored, William Riker accosted a passing pilot as he was pulling on his flight helmet. "What's going on now?" he asked, grabbing the man's arm. Rather than staying still, the pilot twisted from the Commander's grip and continued off down the passageway. "The fleet's evacuating. Better get to our stations," he called over his shoulder. "Evacuating? Why?" Riker called, but the man was out of earshot.

The answers they were seeking not forthcoming, Data located a computer panel and entered a few commands. Beside him, Geordi watched curiously. "You can read that now?" he asked. "Yes," Data responded, not looking up from the screen. "During our time on the Coral Iris, I was able to commit their galactic Basic to memory." The android looked up towards Riker and the Captain. "Commander, I believe that several Imperial attack ships have been detected entering the system. The Admiral has put the Alliance fleet on high alert." "Are the enemy starships attacking?" the Arbiter asked, moving beside Data. Tapping a few controls, the android shook his head. "I do not believe so. Their force seems to be too small to pose a threat. However, it is highly likely that they will summon reinforcements." The Captain considered the available facts. "It would appear that there is little to do but trusted our hosts can evacuate safely. In the mean time, we should do our best to stay out of their way." Again the Captain found himself forced into a position utterly beyond his control, it had been that way since the Enterprise had been lost it seemed.

Of course, things were about to get a whole lot worse.


	5. Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Mon Mothma's shuttle is attached. Repeat, cargo is aboard."

"Copy that. Gray squadron moving to escort position."

The Redemption, a long, tubular Nebulon-B Frigate, ignited the engine banks set on its aft budge and shot out of orbit, a squadron of X and A-Wings forming a protective cloud around it. Connected to the Medical ship, which possessed the most advanced Med lab facilities in the Alliance, by an umbilical docking port set in the starship's mid section, Mon Mothma and her small staff climbed out of her shuttle in time to see a small, heavily armed Corellian Corvette pull alongside through a viewing window. The diplomat and leader sighed, wishing that Ackbar had sent the escort to guard the trickle of civilian craft now emerging form Sullust's atmosphere, but it was too late to divert the corvette. She sighed deeply, taking in the pale, arid disk that was the planet as it shrank away.

Behind the frigate, the fleet was breaking up into small formations, each heading in a different vector. If all went according to plan, each group would make several random jumps, and then meet back at the fallback position, an uninhabited star system just outside of Hutt space. A few pinpricks of thruster light, General Calrissian's squadron Mon Mothma supposed, moved off towards the stream of Sullustan evacuees, growing steadily as every hyperspace capable ship took off, packed with citizens fleeing their now doomed world. As the first of the fleeing vessels left the planet's gravity well and prepared to jump away, the clank off boots on the deck plate caused Mon Mothma to look away from the spectacle. "Madame, your awaited on the bridge. The Captain is about to make the jump," a rebel officer, dressed in a crisp, white uniform said, saluting. Mon Mothma nodded, and the two made their way towards a turbolift that would bring them to the frigate's command deck. However, as the officer tapped the door consol, and the doors of the mover slid open, a shockwave tore through the vessel. Mothma started to topple to the floor, but the officer grabbed her, supporting the woman as a horrendous groan emanated from the Redemption's hull. "What was that?" she asked breathlessly. The officer, an experienced spacer, crossed the hallway to peer out an observation window. "That felt like we were trying to jump into hyperspace in a gravity field," he responded, peering into the darkness. "But were well outside Sullust's field." Mon Mothma moved along beside him, a sinking feeling inexplicably filling her mind. "Then what could have happened?" Her answer came in a rain of emerald fire.

"Imperial vessels jumping in all around us!" a Mon Calamari ensign shouted, watching his tactical display light up as ship after ship appeared out of the nothingness. The man's warning was not necessary however; all eyes were fixed on the main view screen as Star Destroyer after Star Destroyer came into view in the distance. The admiral's huge eyes took in the grim scene for a moment, his plan evaporating in front of him. "Can the fleet make it to hyperspace before they are on us?" he said to no one in particular.

"Negative, sir. They've brought Interdictor cruisers, a lot of them. The mass shadow fields are blocking our escape routes." Imperial Interdictor ships, Immobilizers they were sometimes called, were able to generate and project a gravity well, making jumps within their range impossible and even capable of pulling passing starships out of hyperspace. As a torrent of Imperial signals appeared on the heads-up screen, Ackbar clenched a finned fist. They had given them just enough time after the Carrack cruisers appeared, just enough to break up out of a defensible formation before the jump. The trap was sprung, and the Admiral hadn't seen it coming. The scattered fleet was trapped between Sullust and a net of Star Destroyers, closing in like a vice. It was going to take all of his skill to pull the Alliance through, and if he didn't, it was the end. "Order all ships to fall back to holding sector," Ackbar called out. "Has the Redemption made it past the range of the blockade?" "No sir," came the reply as the crew rushed to battle stations. "They're pinned down and under fire." They could not afford to loose that ship, Ackbar thought, studying the battle unfolding before him. "Move the Liberty into covering range of the Redemption. They have to get out of the line of fire." A flight officer began to transmit the message, and Ackbar turned his attention to a holographic tactical display of the battle being projected in the center of the bridge.

More than fifteen Star Destroyers and half again as many Interdictors were pushing the hastily regrouping rebel force back towards Sullust, their turbolaser batteries coming into range of the farthest Alliance craft. Against them stood seven Mon Calamari capital ships, cruisers, and frigates, the embattled Redemption, and a motley assortment of modified freighters and corvettes. A Corellian Corvette flickered and disappeared from the screen, and the Admiral winced. He began took search for a hole in their formation, a weakness to exploit. But there were too many, his own fleet still scattered and unprepared. This was a fight they could not win. Rising from his command chair, Ackbar watched as his capital ships disgorged the last of their fighters, X-Wings, A-Wings, B-Wings, Y-Wings, everything the rebels had plunging into the joining battle. As lines of red and green tore through the blackness, and the wall of Star Destroyers took up firing positions, Ackbar swore to make this fight one that the Imperials would regret. The Alliance would not die quietly.

The first wave of Tie Fighters hurtling from their carriers broke across the bows of the regrouping rebel ships like a tempest wind, swarming and harrying the huge ships with green laser blasts. The Alliance fighters were waiting for them, and the desperate struggle at last began in earnest. Rebel and Imperial alike dove and harried around the cruisers, tagging one another with missiles and streams of laser fire. From a distance, the Imperials opened up their cannonade, their turbolaser blast impacting violently with rebel shields. The Alliance ships added their own bursts to the display, red and yellow bolts passing green ones on their rapid journey to distant targets.

Removed from the chaotic center of the conflict, Lando Calrissian surged around the sphere of Sullust, his squadron close behind. The Imperials seemed to be ignoring the fleeing refugees on the other side of the globe, instead focusing on the entrapped Rebel fleet. "Alright, there she is," Lando said, pointing out through the view screen of his modified star Yacht, the Lady Luck. A running battle was raging before them as the Redemption and its escorts made for the relative safety of the main fleet, with two Star Destroyers pursuing her. In the distance, the Liberty, a Mon Cal capital ship nearly as formidable as the Home One was breaking formation to support the fleeing frigate. Beside Lando in the copilot's seat, Nien Nunb, a Sullustan rebel, said something in his rapid native tongue. Lando nodded. "I know, they're too far away. We'll have to hold off those destroyers until the Redemption can get beyond that cruiser." The general flipped on the comm frequency for his squadron. "Reds, the Redemption has to get through. 7 through 14 help Gray squadron get those Ties off her tail. The Gold squad and the rest of Red, target the closest Star Destroyer. Follow me in." A flurry of clicks over the comm line acknowledged the order, and the formation split into two groups. Nien took some readings on the target starship and muttered something. Lando grinned. "Well, maybe I am feeling a little crazy today."

A small swarm of A, X and B-Wings flew along side the destroyer and began to pelt it's formidable shields with torrents of crimson lasers and energy bombs. Caught off guard, the turbolaser gunners on the cruiser's port side slowly shifted their turrets, easily the size of any of the attacking fighters themselves, and began to fire on the tiny defenders. The large guns were not suited for targeting small and maneuverable craft, and they're Tie's were occupied by the Redemption's defenders, but the squadrons by themselves were no real threat to the massive destroyer. It was a delaying tactic, the more guns targeted on the fighters, the less hits the fleeing frigate took to its waning shields. All the same, the two Imperial cruisers were grinding down their targets, a point driven home as the corvette flanking the Nebulon-B erupted into flames as a turbolaser volley penetrated its shields. The disintegrating craft spiraled away slowly, and then exploded in a firework of ignited fuel and dead freedom fighters.

Lando winced as the remains of the rebel ship spun away, cooling quickly in the interstellar blackness. He was also losing men. The second Star Destroyer had begun to divert some of its fighters to aid its harassed comrade, and they were chipping away at Lando's force. Its cannons belching fire at the ship's shielded hull, the golden colored Lady Luck wove back and forth in front of the destroyer's command tower, dodging turbolasers and Tie Fighters. As General Calrissian was setting up for another pass on the massive ship, Nien Nunb cried out in alarm. Three Tie Interceptors, angular Tie's with greater speed and maneuverability than their front line cousins were bearing down on the Luck from above. Lando through his yacht into an erratic spin, but the Interceptors pursued doggedly, their blasts licking the Luck's shields. Lando was able to down one as he arched high over the Star Destroyer's embattled surface, but the other two unleashed another volley of green bolts, wearing down the Lady Luck's shields to the breaking point. Nien motioned urgently towards the red flashing shield indicator on the control panel, and Lando began to sweat as his evasive maneuvers failed to shake off the Ties. The rebels braced themselves for the final torrent of fire, but suddenly a familiar shape raced over their bow, twin quad laser cannons blazing.

Lando wheeled his craft around just in time to see the Millennium Falcon pass in between the two enemy fighters, etching crippling holes in their hulls. "Looks like your feeling better you old pirate," Lando exclaimed happily as the Falcon pulled up alongside his ship. "Do you really think I'd miss this?" the cocky voice of hero of the Rebellion Han Solo crackled over the comm channel. The lower turret of the YT-1400 freighter opened up again, picking off a particularly bold Tie fighter. "Nice shot Chewie," Han commented over the comm, evidently calling to the Wookiee sitting in the lower gun turret. Before Lando could continue the conversation, Nien spoke up. "In range?" he replied, checking on the incoming Liberty. "Han, looks like the cavalry has arrived. Get ready for another run on that destroyer." General Solo acknowledged and the two starships split off from one another, diving back down into the fray.

"Liberty, this is General Calrissian. Are you in firing range?" After a moment, a calm voice responded. "Good to hear from you General. Just tell me where you want the us." Lando spun his ship out of the way of a trio of Ties with a B-Wing on their tail. "Right there is fine Captain. I want you to fire a concentrated burst at out target's command deck, all batteries. We just need the shields down for a few seconds." The Liberty's Captain sounded unsure. "That destroyer isn't very heavily damaged General. Even if I coordinate with the Redemption's aft turbolasers, you wont get more than a second long window." Lando nodded. "That's all we need."

The Captain of the Star Destroyer Enervator watch calmly as his quarry drew closer, his turbolasers pouring fire onto the fleeing rebel Frigate. Beyond his view port, Alliance fighters and Tie squadrons harried each other, random blaster bolts impacting harmlessly against the Destroyer's defense screens. Around him, officers and crewers worked fervently, monitoring the battle around them. A young Lieutenant in a crisp uniform approached him. "The target's shields are almost down. They will be down in moments." He considered the news and turned back to the battle before him. In the distance, a rebel cruiser had broken formation form the main fleet and was steadily approaching. His tactical advisors had deemed it a non-threat at this range, but it was powering up its weapon systems, and something didn't feel right.

His gaze shifted to the Enervator's accompanying cruiser, the Eriadu, as it flew along close off to starboard, adding its own fire to the battle. Perhaps too close. "Move us away from the Eriadu," he ordered the navigation officers in the crew pits below him. As several crewers started to comply, another one, in the sensor bank, called out. "The Mon Calamari capital ship is firing with all of its forward batteries." The Captain gazed at the distant ship in confusion. At such an extreme range, even a Star Destroyer cloud easily maneuver out of the firing vector, or at least relocate the hit to a less vulnerable area. Then an officer spoke in trepidation. "Captain, were to close to the Eriadu to move out of the way quickly enough!" With one side blocked off by the allied ship, the Destroyer's evasive options became limited. Without the proper turning radius, a thruster boost could easily shear off half of the titanic ship or ram it into its partner. "Intensify forward screens!" the Captain yelled as pinpricks of light spewed from the distant cruiser.

The beams of energy, joined by blasts from the Redemption's functioning rear guns and a spray of scattered fighter fire impacted the base of the Star Destroyer's bridge tower simultaneously, causing its shields to flicker and fail for a moment. A tremendous concussion shook the mighty vessel, and the Captain had to grab a railing to keep from tipping into the crowded crew pit below. As the huge bridge deflector domes mounted at the top of the tower strained to recover from the shock and reactivate the protective curtain, two B-Wings and a golden star yacht wove past the swarm of defending Tie fighters and poured missiles and laser fire on the right of the structures. The projectiles riddled the gray globe with holes and a moment later it shattered in a cloud of atomized durasteel and shield superconductors. An unfortunate rebel pilot skimmed too close to the shattered bulb, and his melted and scoured B-Wing careened into the Star Destroyer's gray hull. The twin explosions rocked the ship again, and its shields faltered once more, deprived of one of their tributaries. The Captain gripped his railing with white knuckles. "I want those shields back up now!" he screamed frantically. Even as the command left his lips however, a small Corellian freighter skimmed over the destroyer's exposed surface, hurtling over turbolaser turrets and sloping deck levels. The Captain watched as the ship veered off suddenly, two distant spots of light replacing it. The Imperial was forming the first syllables of an expletive when twin concussion missiles shore through the bridge windows and detonated.

Fire and molten metal flowered from the Star Destroyer's bridge tower as the rebel fighters, lead by Han and Lando peeled away from the ship. The massive cruiser reeled lazily to one side pushing slowly into its sister ship. The Eriadu, trapped by the same tactical mistake that had doomed her comrade fired a few parting shots at the fleeing rebels before the two collided. The Enervator's bulk tore across the other destroyer's bow, sheering off blocky weapons emplacements and sensor towers until finally the two ship's command towers bisected one another. The two ruined forms, fused together, drifted lazily in space as suddenly baseless fighters screeched towards the safety of the main Imperial force, still harried by rebel fighters. "Nice shooting General Solo," the Liberty's Captain complemented as the Alliance craft turned back towards the main conflict, the Redemption now escorted by the larger vessel.

Back in the Home One's control center, the Admiral's battle was fairing far worse. "Sir, the Verdant has taken heavy damage. They're being cut of from the rest of the fleet," a Mon Cal Lieutenant said from his terminal. "Requesting assistance." Ackbar gazed fixatedly at the battle beyond his viewscreen. The Imperial noose was tightening, and although they had managed to take out a destroyer and a great deal of the enemy Tie's, the rebels were losing ships just as fast, and they had fewer to spare. A grim reminder of this, the burned out hulk of a rebel cruiser spun slowly away from the fleet, Sullust's gravity slowly tearing it apart. Then Ackbar saw it, a hole in their line, and beyond it an area of space uncovered by the Interdictors. It would be a gambit, but options were limited. "Tell the Verdant to hold position, well be coming for it." The rebel officer looked up, perplexed. "Sir?" Ackbar ignored the question and instead keyed a comm frequency from his chair's arm panel. "Captain Antilles, I want your squadrons to clear away as many enemy starships as possible from the fleet's front." After a moment, Wedge Antilles, commander of the rebel starfighter force, responded. "Got it Admiral. Give us a moment."

As the fighters redoubled their efforts against the horde of Ties and attack craft, Ackbar turned back to the Lieutenant. "As soon as the Redemption and Liberty regroup with the fleet, order all ships to set course for coordinates 400-12934 and engage at full speed." The officer checked the flight path, and then looked up again, dubious. "Admiral, that takes the fleet _through_ the Imperial line. We cant get that close to they're capital ships, we'll be torn apart." Ackbar flexed his features into a stiff smile, more a matter of posture than facial movement as it was with humans. "Then they wont be expecting it, will they?" The Lieutenant looked back in surprise. The Admiral was breaking with tradition.

Their path momentarily cleared by Wedge's forces, the fleet shot forward, the Home One in the lead, its shields absorbing waves of turbolaser fire and gun turrets returning it. The Alliance force formed into a giant bullet formation, fighters swarming around the outside, driving off any Imperial fighters daring enough to come close. The fleet of Star Destroyer's, startled by the Admiral's sudden maneuver, were slow to respond, they're clumsy ships reorienting to close their trap anew. However, the charge left only three cruisers directly in the rebel fleet's path, and Ackbar wasn't about to let that stop him. As the fleet approached the first star destroyer, he unleashed their only ace, a pair of automated ram ships, Gallofree transports packed with explosives. The pair shot forward, buffeted by cannon fire. Squadrons of Imperial fighters swarmed over the ships, but they did not return fire. Evidently thinking them Blockade Runners of a sort, a Star Destroyer grabbed one in a tractor beam and pulled it closer, Tie fighters guarding the perimeter against rebel fighter reprisals. Deep inside the modified cargo hauler, a droid brain observed as it was pulled closer and closer to the enemy carrier. Then, as the ship was almost nestled under the destroyer, the droid activated a detonator. A small Star formed momentarily under the Imperial vessel, and then disappeared, half of the destroyer an entire squadron of Ties going with it. Alerted to the threat, the other two focused their fire on the other suicide vessel and vaporized it, but the damage was done, their centerline was weak enough to pass through.

The fighters plunged through first, their lasers forming a red wave against an increasingly irate foe. Although the bulk of the Imperial force, ten destroyers, was still far behind, the two remaining defenders were no small difficulty, setting up a deadly crossfire that the Rebel fleet would have to pass through. The Alliance craft barreled through, a shell of armor plate and energy shield around the vulnerable Redemption, returning waves of turbolaser fire and Ion cannon blasts. The Verdant, a stubby Mon Calamari frigate covered in weapons blisters was the first to go. Already heavily damaged by the battle, a broadside from one of the Star Destroyers riveted the ship with gapping holes, one blast striking its core and triggering a blinding explosion, a memorial for the hundreds onboard. More rebel craft, the slower Sullustan ships and modified transports fell next; their blazing remains form a trail behind the fleeing Alliance fleet. They were losing ships to fast, Ackbar realized, and the pair of Star Destroyers was still flanking them, raining down endless waves of green fire.

"Concentrate all fire on the port Star Destroyer," Admiral Ackbar ordered over a general comm. If they couldn't shake the flanking ships, no Alliance ship would escape to fight another day. Everyone in the fleet knew this, and with the pure desperation brought on by near certain death, a thunderous torrent of ion discharges and lasers bore down on the target destroyer, hammering its side. Blast began to pierce the shields, leaving charred craters where turbolaser banks once stood. Mortally wounded by enemy fire, an antiquated assault frigate rammed the Destroyer's engine block, sending shock waves and rivets of flame running through the craft. Heavily damaged, the Imperial starship veered of course into the blackness of space, tumbling helplessly as its crew desperately fought to keep its reactor from detonating. The remaining Star Destroyer, now without immediate support, decelerated, allowing the Alliance ships to surge ahead.

A cheer went up on ships throughout the fleet. They had taken heavy losses, but the Rebellion had survived against impossible odds. Admiral Ackbar slumped relieved into his chair, his lieutenants running over to congratulate him. In just a few more seconds, they would be outside of the Interdictor gravity net, and out of Imperial reach.

And then the unimaginable happened. From the empty space before the victorious rebels blossomed at impossible speed an impenetrable wall. Like a demon of myth emerging from the pits of the underworld, the Executor surged from hyperspace.


	6. Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

From the bridge of his colossal flagship, Darth Vader stared into space icily as the rebel fleet came into view. Beside him stood Admiral Piett, awaiting orders from the dark lord and new Emperor. The Admiral had worked under Vader before, namely at the battle of Hoth and the hunt for the Millennium Falcon afterwards. That operation had nearly been his last, as the Falcon had eluded Piett at Bespin and Darth Vader was notoriously generous with summary executions. However, the sith had spared him, and Piett was not anxious to test his master's generosity with another failure. Darth Vader continued staring intently into the abyss, even as the enemy ships began to alter their course, their present flight path now blocked by the Executor's own gravity well projectors. "Your orders Lord Vader?" Piett prompted.

Vader was silent for a moment longer, looking intently at the rebel ships. "You may commence the attack Admiral, but I want their command ship captured. Send over boarding parties, I want the command crew alive." Piett looked at the cyborg in confusion. Capturing such a large ship, especially in the middle of a battle would be an impractical and costly feat. "My lord, do you really think it is wise to attempt such a capture? The losses would be staggering." Even as the words left his mouth, Piett wished he could take them back. Darth Vader turned slowly to him, glowering behind his eye bulges. "Are you questioning my orders Admiral?" Piett stared into the dark lord's mask, his face twitching involuntarily. Then he bowed curtly and spun to one of his officers. "Prep all capture wings for boarding action on the rebel flagship. Destroy the other vessels, make sure none escape."

With the might of more than six lesser Star Destroyers, the Executor could have stood toe to toe with the remnants of the Rebel fleet even with out the reinforcement the rapidly approaching Imperial strike force would bring. Now completely cut off from escape, the Alliance starcraft began to fight like crazed beasts, unleashing waves of deadly energy against the Executor's virtually impenetrable shields. The thousands of weapons emplacements adorning the super star destroyers opened up their own torrent of fire, and rebel ships began to fall. Corvettes and armed transports began to bloom with explosions of yellow and red, spilling their crews into the blackness of space. The Executor's fighter squadrons poured from their bays, peppering the dying rebel force with a hail of green laser bolts. The surviving Alliance fighters under the lead of Wedge, Lando, and Han erased Tie formation after formation, but there were too many. As forward Tie fighters from the pursuing starfighters made their way into the fray, they found the defenders faltering, X and Y wings exploding left and right.

"Tighten up!" Wedge ordered as his squadron plunged into a thicket of Tie Interceptors. The claw-like ships folded in around the X-wings eager to make the kill. "Break!" The dozen ships peeled outwards all at once, missile tubes disgorging a legion of proton torpedoes. The shimmering projectiles blew gapping holes in the Tie formation, some wiping away four at a time. The X-Wings cleaned up the rest, their four wing lasers cannons blazing. The small battle done, the squadron traversed around the Redemption, blasting Imperial fighters off her tail. As they flew, the Lady Luck sung into their formation, taking up a place next to Wedge's fighter. "How much more of this do you think we can take," Lando's voice crackled across the comm link. Wedge shook his head. "We can hold them for now, but were losing men fast, and when those other destroyers move into range, it'll be over."

"There has to be a way out of this, a hole in the trap," Lando commented, one of his ship's laser cannons picking off a Tie. Wedge tightened the grip on his firing yoke. There was little chance any of them was going to escape when the Imperials had found them, and now with the enemy flagship in the fray, survival would nearly impossible. "But death take me if I don't try," Wedge mumbled under his breath as his squad angled towards a new group of targets.

As his fighters were about to engage a fresh batch of Tie's, Admiral Ackbar's voice came over the comm. "All ships, move into diamond defensive formation around the flagship and the Redemption. Fighter squadrons, move to intercept the new signals incoming from the Executor. The boarding craft must not reach our capital ships." Boarding craft, Wedge wondered. Why would they risk soldiers when the day was almost won? His thoughts were put to the side as the fleet of landing ships came into view. More boxy and compact than their shuttle counterparts, Imperial boarding craft could penetrate the waning shields of an embattled ship and search for an open docking bay or docking port. With then flew a squadron of Tie Boarders, modified two chambered fighters that could latch onto a larger ship and burn holes through the target's hull itself. "Take out those ships," Wedge ordered as the convoy's escorts vaporized one of his wingmen. "We can't let any through." His ships knifed into the approaching formation, and multicolored bolts of energy began to fly anew. As Wedge and Lando bore down on the first of the transports and it blew apart, Wedge Antilles felt a sudden flicker of hope. Then the Imperial reinforcements arrived.

The Federation officers and the other guests pounded down the Home One's hallways earnestly, weaving past squads of bedraggled rebels as they moved frantically from post to post, trying to hold the ship together. The Home One's interior was chocked with smoke from ruptured wall plates and small fires, the terrifying sound of turbolaser blasts impacting failing shields echoing through the hull. As they were rounding a corner, a tremulous boom rocked the deck plates underneath their feet. "This ship is losing its shields fast," Cortana called out from Master Chief's helmet, her objections to probing the ship forgotten. "I suggest we find a docking bay and commandeer a ship."

Picard stopped to consider this suggestion. It was true that he did not wish to see the remnants of his crew perish if the Alliance ship was destroyed, but a sense of duty to their hosts, and to Truul nagged at him. "No," he said finally. "We have to contact the bridge, to see if we can aid them." Riker looked askance at his superior. "With all due respect sir, do you really think that's wise? We don't have a ship or any advantage that could help them now. The only hope for these people if any of them survive is the wormhole and the Federation, and those won't do them much good if we're all dead." Picard was taken aback by this rebuttal. William Riker was an opinionated officer, but he never contradicted his captain in public, in full view of other officers. Evidently the last several days had been as much of a strain on the commander as they had been on him.

Before Picard could formulate response, an impact shook the ship again, knocking them off balance. Even as the reverberations continued, a voice came over the loudspeakers. "All available marines report to decks D-27 and C-14 immediately. Imperial boarders have broken through our shields. Repeat, Imperial boarders…" The message was interrupted by a blast of static and silence hung amongst the group. It seemed like getting off the ship would be considerably more of a challenge. To punctuate the thought, Master Chief shoved a blaster clip into a pistol he had swiped from an open weapons locker. The silence broken, Picard sighed, and then straightened up. "Mr. Data, see if you can contact the bridge." The android move to a wall panel and tapped a few keys. After a moment, he shook his head. "The signal is being interrupted. Either ship wide communications have been damaged by the bombardment, or the Imperial boarders are disrupting the connection."

Picard nodded, his mind now made up. "Alright. Will, get the crew to the docking bay and find a ship. I'm going to the bridge to get the command staff out of here, we can't lose them. Mr. Worf, officer Jossa you're with me." Riker looked like he was about to object, but another, closer impact stopped him. "Commander Data, you see to know your way around here. Lead the way," Riker said wearily. Data indicated a direction, and the Enterprise crew moved off, feeling more and more like marionettes, being pulled back and forth without a destination. Two figures however, Master Chief and the impassive Tassadar, remained with the captain in the fog. "I would not want to risk either of your lives on this mission. It is our duty as Starfleet officers to aid these people, not yours." The two towering beings didn't budge. "We appreciate the sentiment Captain," Cortana said, "but you're not going to talk the Chief out of this one. Besides, he is the only one here with a gun." The spartan nodded. Picard looked to the reptilian Tassadar. "You may require my assistance," is all he said in response to the questioning look. Picard would have pressed further, but a sudden detonation deep below them was a grim reminder of the precarious situation. "Cortana, find me a way to the bridge."

Jacen Solo wove through the corridors of the rebel flagship quickly, lights flickering overhead. The hallways, just a minute before filled with anxious rebel techs and soldiers were now unerringly vacant. Jacen was determined to find a way into the fight; brief glimpses of shattered rebel craft out of view ports reminded him of the chaos outside. With the new threat of boarders, he felt all the more obligated to aid the Alliance. As he ducked under a bulkhead dislodged by the Imperial bombardment, blaster fire and shouts of pain and anger wafted up the passageway. The young jedi unclipped his lightsaber from its belt and moved forward cautiously, alert to any sudden threats. From a side passage, brilliant light flashes of red and the sounds of battle cast an eerie counterpoint to the silent hallway Jacen was standing in. Edging carefully along the wall, the jedi chanced a glance down the noisy passage.

A group of rebel soldiers, armed with an assortment of rifles and hand blasters, crouched with their backs to Jacen, were hunkered behind a barricade of cargo crates, mess hall tables, and anything else the defenders could lay their hands on. Beyond them the hall was filling with white-armored stormtroopers, elite crack troopers armed with modified short range rifles and a variety of explosives. These soldiers kept the rebels pinned down under a hail of fire, blaster bolts pinging of pastisteel furniture and rocketing aimlessly down the hall. One of the troopers dislodged a device from his equipment belt, primed it and flung it over the impromptu wall. It was at this point Jacen decided to act.

Igniting his lightsaber in a brilliant flash, he leapt down the hallway, eyes fixed upon the grenade, now lying on the floor in the middle of the rebel ranks. Before the soldiers could even react, the jedi motioned with his free hand, and the explosive leapt back into the air flying straight back into the mass of stormtroopers. A moment later, the device activated, but instead of blowing apart, it began to spew greenish gas, dioxin, from vents on its sides. The toxin could immobilize and kill a normal human in less than two minutes, but the stormtrooper's air filtration systems made them immune to its effects. The soldiers were now wading through the deadly fog, their blasters opening up once more. Of course, Jacen thought as he wove through bewildered rebel defenders and leapt over the barrier, they would be using gas canisters and sonic grenades. If they really wanted to capture the ship and presumably some of its crew, then risking structural collapse with thermal detonators or other explosives wouldn't make much sense.

Even before he landed, Jacen swept the gas cloud back down the hallway, leaving the imperial troopers out in the open again. If they were startled by the sudden appearance of a teenager wielding a lightsaber, they did not show it, and immediately renewed their attack, E-11s thrumming loudly. With a wide stroke of his lightsaber, Jacen reflected the first volley of crimson bolts, sending them back at their owners. As two plastoid-armored bodies fell to the floor, the other stormtroopers, a half dozen of them, evidently having gained access from a turbolift down the hall, ducked into side doors, firing out from cover at random intervals. The jedi knight charged ahead, flinging troopers into walls and lopping weapons in half. While nowhere near as powerful a fighter as his siblings, Jacen still moved easily through the ranks of the Imperial soldiers, disarming and maiming. After two years of fighting the mysteriously force-immune Yuuzhan Vong, dealing with opponents he could predict and influence with the energy field was somewhat of a relief.

The conflict lasted less than a minute, Jacen's green saber quickly putting down the soldiers trapped by the confines of the narrow passage. However, the jedi's aberrance towards killing unnecessarily, even in battle, remained, and when the surviving rebel defenders scrambled over their fortification, they found only three of the eight imperials were dead, the two blasted by their own bolts and another who had impaled himself accidentally on Jacen's saber. The Alliance soldiers thanked Jacen for his aid and began to herd the surviving stormtroopers into a side chamber. As Jacen deactivated his lightsaber and was about to move on to the next hot spot when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was the rebel who had rescued Picard and his crew from the Star Destroyer. "Major Besteen?"

The man shook of the comment, his slightly singed ponytail swaying. "Please, call me Truul." The major's right arm was in a makeshift sling, and in his left he cradled a worn power blaster. He glanced to the right of Jacen, were the captive troopers were being led away. "Thanks for the help; they overran our position from one of the secondary docking bays. I think they're trying to grab the High Command." Jacen nodded. "Do you know what the situation is outside?" The older man frowned. "Not since they started landing troops, jammed out comm links and cut the direct lines. But from what I know before that, there weren't many of us left, 'em Imps were beating us bad. Might not be anybody else out there now." If that was the case, then there would be no escape for any of them. Still, Jacen's senses told him there were still fighters out there, and his father was among them.

"Well, whatever's going on out there, me and my men still have to reinforce the bridge. If they take that, were really out," Truul said, hefting his blaster. "I'd never seen a jedi in action, you really pack a punch. Were gonna need all the help we can get to make it to the command deck, so are you in a helpful mood kid?" Even through Truul's rough speech, unusually strained from the fighting, Jacen caught the meaning of the request. Far above them, the faint clank of another attaching boarding craft reverberated through the massive ship.


	7. Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

"C'mon, it's clear," Commander Riker called from beyond a doorway darkened by a damaged light panel. The Federation officers cautiously crept into the darkened hallway, where Data and the Arbiter waited along with the commander. "How much further to the docking bay," Dr. Crusher asked quietly as the group took a brief break. Data looked of for a moment, his positronic brain recalling the schematics he had memorized. "The main docking bay should be fifty meters down this corridor and three levels below us," he said finally. "Commander, we must consider the possibility that the docking bay has been already taken by these human assault teams," the Arbiter noted, his eyes carefully scanning the empty passages. Since the alert had been sounded, they had not encountered any rebel personnel, presumably occupied defending sensitive areas of the ship. Fortunately, there had also been no sight or sound of the Imperial strike teams, although the lessening sounds of bombardment from outside indicated that they were quickly spreading throughout the vessel. "If this is the case, we must consider alternate escape routes," the Elite continued.

Riker stroked his stubbly beard, considering. It was reasonable advice, and his small team didn't have a single weapon among them, save the Arbiter and Data themselves. Still, they had to at least investigate the target bay, if the Captain was successful in his mission, that's where he would be headed. "Alright, were pushing on forward until we reach the docking bay, the Captain needs a shuttle. If we encounter any Imperial resistance, we'll make for cover and work out a new course of action from there." Data frowned. "Sir, perhaps it would be prudent to send an advanced team forward to reconnoiter the docking area rather than risk the entire group." Riker shook his head. "No, we can't risk getting separated. If things get to difficult down there, we may have to leave immediately. With the Captain or without him." The last part he said more to himself than anyone else, attempting to reassure his conflicted mind that he could in fact carry out such an order if necessary. The Arbiter shook his long head in disagreement, but he knew full well that it would be impossible to argue with such an obstinate being.

The unlikely procession set off again, wearily watching the shadows and empty hallways light by flickering emergency lights for sudden movement. The Elite and Lt. Commander Data took the lead position, followed closely by Riker and Geordi Laforge. Dr. Crusher and her two bedraggled nurses came next, flanked by Counselor Troi and Reginald Barclay, both silent. Like his compatriots, Barclay had been quiet and forlorn ever since his escape from the Torrent. Even though none had left family on that cold Star Destroyer, they had all left friends, as well as their last real ties with home, a universe away. Even the Captain and Riker had been shaken deeply by the recent events, although they did not let it show. The only ones of the crew seemingly unaffected were the constantly curious but emotionless Data and the cold, logical Vulcan Lieutenant Tolpak, who brought up the rear of the formation.

Data halted the group when they reached a group of doors recessed in the wall. "One of these turbolifts should be able to transport us to the docking bay." Riker nodded and punched a control mounted next to the nearest doorway, and then another, but the entry remained sealed. "It is possible this lift control may have been shorted out by the Imperial bombardment. I shall try to reactivate it," Data said. Riker moved aside and the android pulled the covering of the control panel, revealing a tangle of wires and circuits. The artificial being then began to check each one, using his tactile senses to monitor for a power current. As he worked, the others stood in silence, the embattled starship creaking and wheezing all around them. Geordi, leaning against the bulkhead parallel to the lift bank, stood up straight, his fingers pushing his sight visor onto his face to make sure it was secured correctly. "Data, are we near the exterior hull of this ship?" he asked nervously, his electronically enhanced gaze fixed on the opposite wall. Intrigued by the odd question, the others shifted their own eyes to the spot, a section of clean, whitish wall, typical of the Mon Calamari craft. Without looking up from his work, the android replied, "Yes. This passageway runs just inside the outer armor plating of the vessel. It is positioned in this manner along its entire stretch, a length of ninety five meters." None of the others could figure out what had attracted the engineer's attention, but it was all too clear through his heat sensitive visor. The bulkhead was glowing molten hot. At that moment, Data crossed a set of wires, and the lift doors slid open. Then, as is heard at a distance, came of metallic thud.

In an instant, it clicked. Geordi lunged at Riker, knocking both men into the empty turbolift and away from the wall section, which was beginning to tinge slightly with red even to the naked eye. Before the Commander could protest, Geordi called out, "Move! Its gonna blow in!" Startled and confused, the other officers moved sluggishly, scattering away from the turbolift bank area. As Data disengaged from the damaged lift control and flung himself after the engineer and Riker, the wall radiated an orange and white glow for an instant, and then exploded inwards. The blast knocked the fleeing sentients to the floor and spattered them with molten durasteel. Through a haze of vaporized metal, several forms spilled into the hallway. The trio in the dark turbolift chamber caught sight of white armor and black weaponry before the door slid shut, sealing them in.

His cat-like eyes tearing against the searing cloud, the Arbiter coiled onto his haunches, a shimmering energy barrier forming around him. From the fog emerged five heavily armed stormtroopers, disembarking quickly from the boarding craft now welded to the breached hull. The soldiers hesitated, surprised at encountering opposition so soon and the Elite took up the advantage. Even unarmed, the Arbiter's species were natural warriors, and his shielded silver armor made him all the more formidable. Leaping forward, he extended a muscular palm, and sent a stormtrooper spinning into the wall, his neck broken. Two of the troopers opened up on the Elite with their blasters, red bolts impacted his shield at point blank range. The barrier fizzled at the blows, on the verge of overload, but the Arbiter ignored the threat, instead grabbing each of the trooper's helmeted heads and lifting them of the floor. With a crunch of ceramic armor against metal, the two soldiers rammed against the floor, driven down by the alien as he rolled to the floor, still grasping twin faceplates. Alarmed by the ferocity of the attack, the remaining soldiers backed away from the fray. One of them tripped over a fallen comrade and fell back, his blaster rifle blazing out randomly. The red bursts etched scorch marks in a line along the wall as the weapon fell to the floor, sending Lieutenant Tolpak into a roll to avoid to shots. The last stormtrooper, a captain bearing a flechette launcher, a vicious short-range projectile weapon, brought his weapon to bear on the rampaging warrior and fired. From its wide barrel emanated a hail of tiny burning pellets, which impacted against the weakened shields and collapsed them. In spite of the vulnerability, the Arbiter lunged at the captain, mouth mandibles vibrating with intensity. The trooper stumbled back and fired again, the pellets knifing into the Elite's torso and left arm and reflecting of armor. He howled in pain and hunched over slightly, but kept coming, his helmeted head lowered like a battering ram. Gauntleted fingers moved over the launchers trigger for a third time, but before they could squeeze, the Arbiter swung swiftly around behind the stormtrooper, grabbing his gun. With a jerk of the outflanked soldier's arm and a flash of light as the weapon discharged, the captain fell to the floor, his own scatter bolts having torn through the flexible neck lining of his armor.

The Arbiter fell to his knees, blue blood ebbing from the numerous punctures riddling his body. However, the injuries were more painful than they were dangerous, the flechette blast having only been a glancing blow. He sensed a human was now standing over him and looked up to see the human medic Crusher standing there, still shaken by the attack. To his surprise, she extended a hand to him, a smile gracing her mammalian face. Long, leathery fingers embraced human ones, and the Arbiter felt the hostility the woman had exuded towards him since the incident in the medbay melt away. Then a bright flash filled his vision and a bolt of light bore into the doctor's waist. A look of shock crossed the woman's features as the color in her cheeks drained and she toppled slowly too the floor, her hand still clenched in the Arbiter's fist. His eyes wide, the warrior pivoted around to see a black clad Imperial pilot standing in the wall breach, a blaster pistol in his hand. Coolly, the flight suited figure watched his first target go down from behind domed eye ports, and then shifted his weapon on the crouching warrior, its barrel aimed at his exposed neck. A crimson bolt of energy split the air.

Rebel soldiers lined the passage to the bridge, forming a virtually impassible barrier. Every Alliance crewman who could fire a blaster were holding back the Imperial boarders on the Command deck, weapons control centers, and the main ship length corridors. Everyone else was busy destroying any information that could lead the Empire to the few remaining resistance cells left in the galaxy. They all new there was little hope left for the rebellion, but as those dedicated to what they believe in often do, they fought on.

"Stop," a rebel officer called from behind a mobile bulkhead. "Identify yourselves." Captain Picard, along with the security officers, Tassadar and the Master Chief stood at the end of the entry hall to the bridge, their hands slightly raised. Beyond the bulkhead, the points of two dozen blaster rifles pointed out threateningly towards them from along the hall. To add to the effect, three automated laser turrets hung in the ceiling above them, trained on the intruders. Picard stepped forward, trying to look diplomatic. "We are guests of the Alliance High Command, and we have come to provide assistance to them," he said. "Although it looks like you've set up a staunch defense without our help." The unseen Rebel officer was silent for a moment, evidently checking their story. The defense turrets watched them ceaselessly, and it made the Chief and Worf uncomfortable. The Spartan's hand hovered closer and closer to the blaster lodged in his belt.

At last, the Rebel returned, appearing as the bulkhead dropped away, leaving a straight shot to the bridge. The officer, a Twi'lek, motioned for his troops to lower their weapons. The dual rows of blasters fell, and the defense turrets withdrew into the ceiling. "The Admiral has given you permission to enter the bridge," he said. "But I don't think that there's much you can do to assist us, not much anyone can do."

The Home One's bridge was the hive of frantic activity one would have expected in such a situation. The crewers moved from station to station agitatedly, coordinating the few remaining operational guns and the ship's dwindling defenders. On the command platform above them, Admiral Ackbar watched the holographic display that dominated the room in silence. It showed the reason for the chaotic action around him in perfect clarity. Where once had been dozens of rebel craft, only a few remained, the Home one itself, the Redemption, the badly damaged hulk of the Capital ship Independence, and a lone light Mon Calamari cruiser, as well as a few desperate squadrons of fighter craft and light freighters, still fighting valiantly on. Hemming the pitiful group in was the Imperial fleet, the Executor and the lead Star Destroyer on either side, firing pot shots at the rebel ships. The rest of the Imperial fleet was moving in swiftly, nine deadly cruisers hurrying to complete the trap. Without the Home One, which the other craft were using as cover and the Imperials seemed intent on capturing, none would likely be left.

The rebel crewers ignored the bridge's new inhabitants, focused on their desperate tasks. Ackbar however swiveled his eyes towards the Captain as he and his escorts made their way towards the raised section of the bridge. "Captain Picard, I trust you understand we have little time for your tale right now," he said curtly, turning his attention back to the tactical displays. "And it would seem that we may never have time for it again. Comms, direct General Solo to move his fighters to protect the Redemption's flank. That Imperial squadron is moving too close to her shield cluster." Beyond the transparisteel command window at the Admiral's back, X-Wings and Tie Interceptors traded fire and maneuvered to out fly each other. Beyond them, the massive Imperial command ship spat green turbolaser volleys at unseen ships defending the Home One's carbon-scored form. Blinking screens on consoles scattered throughout the chamber spoke of its imperiled state, its shields were gone and the weapons emplacements that had survived the Executor's bombardment were falling silent one by one as Stormtrooper Commandos captured gunnery stations and cut power lines from the inside. Imperial intruders were on virtually every deck, bypassing non-essential areas to capture important positions like Main Engineering, the Main engine control power systems, and the bridge itself. Rebel defenders were putting up a valiant fight, but a constant stream of landing craft bypassed the weakening fleet perimeter and was pumping troops in through the two captured docking bays, as well as at various insertion points through the hull.

"Admiral, General Madine reports that his position near the primary turbolaser bank is being overrun," an ensign reported, in contact with the human officer over one of the ships uncompromised communication lines. Ackbar stared at a schematic of his ship, sections of it glowing with the red of Imperial occupation. "Have the general withdraw to deck fourteen and reinforce the command post. When they're out, vent the main access way into space," the one of the Mon Calamari's lieutenants ordered. This might hold them for a while, but the main weapons systems would have to be abandoned, and Imperial casualties would be minimal. Stormtrooper armor was renowned for being able to resist and filter almost any gas or airborne toxin, and could even hold atmosphere for a few minutes in space.

Picard waited for a relatively quite moment before speaking again. "Actually Admiral, my men and I have come to render any assistance we can to you. I had hoped to be able to escort you and the Command staff to one of the docking bays." The Mon Cal didn't look towards him. "With all due respect Picard," he said, "There is no escape for us now. The imperial interdiction net has seen to that." Picard was surprised, the Admiral didn't strike his as the type of person who would loose hope or give in. "Surely there is a possibility you could break at least a few of yours ships away from…" His argument was silenced as Ackbar raised a finned hand. "Look at the hologram Picard, very soon that fleet of destroyers will be within firing range and the Executor has blocked our only escape vector. We have been outmaneuvered and trapped, I have failed the Alliance. Our only option is to fight until the last man has fallen." Next to the Captain, Worf muttered something. "It is a warrior's most honorable fate." Picard did have to admit the situation seemed hopeless, and it seemed the only options were to fight and die or to yield and have the surviving rebels interrogated, tortured, and executed in some mock trial at the hands of the ruthless Empire. If given such a choice, Picard felt he would make the same to decision, to fight to the last. All the same, to give up hope of achieving victory was the surest path to defeat, and the fates of the Alliance and possibly the Federation itself lay on the actions of the Admiral and his crew.

"Sir!" a Sullustan shouted. "The Independence has lost shields! They're taking significant structural damage!"

"Show me."

On a display screen, the image of the Home One's sister ship flickered into view. The mighty cruiser had drifted out of the Admiral's defensive cluster and too close to the converging Star Destroyer fleet. Sensing an easy kill, the closest destroyer, supplemented by deep range blasts from the other ships, had focused all its guns and torn away the Mon Cal cruiser's shields. The vessel was beginning to list under the withering bombardment, its sides hemorrhaging fire. "Move the Republica to provide coving fire for the Independence," The Admiral ordered urgently, and the remaining light cruiser began to break for the wounded starship. The command came too late.

Its engines gone, the starship reeled away like a dying animal, beginning to tumble freely through space, still pounded by turbolaser fire. Then a tremendous conflagration ran down the ship's spine and it split open, illuminating the blackness for a moment. Then the Independence was gone. The blast was reflected on the admiral's huge black eyes, and he lowered his head solemnly. Thousands more freedom fighters, men he had failed, dead in the cold depths of space.

The bridge quieted for a moment, a sign of shock and respect for those who had just died, but the respite was short lived. "Sir," one of the human officers called through the silence. "A transmission from Captain Antilles." Over the speakers, a heavily distorted voice came through, interrupted by bursts of static. "Admiral, they've…several more boarding Ties got past…attaching to command deck…incoming…" Wedge's X-Wing had been heavily damaged when the first destroyer reinforcement had arrived, but he had refused to leave the fight for repairs. Even through the sketchy connection, the pilots' warning was clear.

The Mon Calamari admiral hit a button on his control panel. "Commander, you have incoming imperial soldiers. You must hold them at all costs." There was no reply. "Commander Tregel, report," Ackbar said, suddenly agitated. Picard and the others looked up at him, intrigued and uneasy. Over the comm channel, faint sounds, distant shouting, blaster fire, an explosion. Now the entire bridge crew was transfixed and the gaurds at the entry way began to reach for holstered blasters. "Do we have a monitor link with the hallway?" an officer asked and another hurriedly tapped a few commands into a computer console. Several viewers around the room flickered to life, but they showed only static, casting an unsteady glow on the chamber. From inside the Chief's armor, Cortana also watched with fascination, also unable to see the entry corridor. "I've got a bad feeling about this." Master Chief flexed his shoulders and turned towards the sealed doorway, blaster pistol in hand. "No kidding."


	8. Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

The blistering bolt of red light raced through air and impacted its target, releasing a deadly payload of energy. The imperial pilot, blaster still clutched in his gloved fist, swayed for a moment, and then collapsed onto the melted deck plate, steam beginning to rise from his black flight suit. The Arbiter stood frozen his haunches for a moment, looking at the corpse in confusion. Then an unintelligible sound drew the elite's attention across the hallway. There, half crouched and covered in debris from the wall breach, was Reginald Barclay, a blaster rifle seized from a fallen trooper nestled tightly in his hands. The introverted engineer was staring blankly at the imperial he had just shot in disbelief, his hands beginning to shake. Behind him, the two orderlies and the Vulcan were scrambling to their feet and running down the hall towards the Arbiter. Altered by these movements, he shifted his attention back to the human woman lying next to him, her slender hand still in his. She was staring blankly up at the ceiling, her mouth slightly agape.

The female nurse, Onigawa crouched over her, frantically checking for life signs and the blaster wound in her abdomen, the dazed look on her face begin to replaced by hopelessness. As the other officers swarmed the injured doctor, checking her heartbeat and tearing back uniform to reveal a charred gash on her stomach, the Arbiter rose and turned once again to Barclay, who was till in a state of shock, the blaster rifle clutched in white knuckles. Scoping the stormtrooper Captain's flechette launcher of the floor and clutching his wounded side, the Elite loped past the engineer to investigate the boarding ship. Both tiny compartments were empty. Moving back into the hall, he found the male nurse, Walling, was saying something about the human woman going into shock, and the two physicians began to try to revive her, pressing on her chest and giving her breaths. It was at this moment that the turbolift doors that had provided cover for the Commander opened, revealing Lt. Commander Data, ready to spring out against any opposition, Riker and Geordi close behind. Finding the stormtrooper unit dispatched on the debris-strewn floor, they immediately shifted their attention to the cluster of officers around Dr. Crusher, whose eyes had closed and was lying limp.

Barclay was now standing, the blaster hanging limply from his hand as he watched Beverly Crusher fall towards the verge of death. The Arbiter gave the man a deep nod, a gesture of respect among warriors he thought he would never give to the mousy, timid human. Exasperating and clumsy perhaps, but he had saved the Elite's life. Barclay stared at the warrior, his eyes still bewildered and hazy. "I… I just picked it up and shot. I've never killed anyone before," he said, gazing at the gun in his hand. Unusual behavior, the Arbiter noted. One of his species would likely be feeling the exhilaration of blood lust after his first kill, but Barclay seemed simply overwhelmed by the act. Perhaps the human's way was better, enjoying the hunt too much made you sloppy and reckless.

An increase in the decibel of the noise from the other officer's direction drew them back to the events at hand. Tears were streaming down the female nurse's face, the doctor's now pale head in her hands. Nurse Walling was shaking his head. Geordi's head was lowered, shaking slowly. Will Riker had his right placed on Dr. Crusher's shoulder, a taught expression straining his face. The Arbiter felt a sudden twinge inside him, sadness perhaps, another unexpected feeling. These beings, his comrades now, had grown on him. As the humans placed her arms at her sides, the Arbiter felt the last of the Prophet's old hateful teachings, their xenophobic lies melt away. For better or worse, he was committed to these beings.

"Is there another route out of here?" Master Chief asked loudly, his blaster pistol trained on the main entryway, now flanked by the bridge's six guards, their weapons also drawn. From beyond it, muffled clunking and hissing sounds emanated, clearly heard in the suddenly silent chamber. Admiral Ackbar tore his eyes from the sealed door and shifted them back to the holographic battle display, where the outgunned remnants of the rebel fleet still fought. "Admiral?" the super soldier prompted again. Reluctantly, the Admiral rose and moved to the edge of the railed command level. "Yes, there is a maintenance hallway behind the communications center." He motioned to a secluded corner of the room, beyond a large group of flickering displays and switchboard panels.

Some of the officers on the deck began to edge towards the small hatch as the sounds from beyond the main entry way grew louder, but the Admiral made no sign of want to evacuate. "I understand that you want to stick this fight out Admiral, really I do. But the fates of both your fight and my civilization may depend on getting you and your command staff out of here," Picard said. "I understand that there is little chance of anyone of us escaping this alive, but we have to try. If you leave here, there still yet be a way to get the rest of the fleet out of this trap, but if we all die or are captured when this bridge is taken…" There was no need to complete the statement. Ackbar's head dipped slightly and he folded his arms behind his back, turning to stare at the waning battle through his viewport, thinking. The bridge staff grew increasingly agitated with each passing moment, and Picard opened his mouth to plead again. However, it was not necessary.

"Begin the evacuation," the Admiral said, turning back to his crew. "Make your way to the primary hangar bay, it is still under our control. I will order Generals Madine and Rieekan to make a push for one of the secondary bays and get as many personnel of the ship and onto the Redemption and the Republica as possible." He glanced at the security monitor beside him, where lines of red were stretching through engineering deck. "The ship is lost, but if they want its crew alive, they'll have to fight for them." With that, he turned to his upper lieutenants to work out an evacuation plan, and the door guards began to direct the dozen or so other officers on the bridge towards the secondary exit. The Master Chief began to maneuver the captain and the others towards the exit as well too, still facing the main door warily.

Even as the first rebel officers were unsealing the service doorway, the attack came. One of the two soldiers still flanking the door yelled a warning as a jet of sparks spat from the door seal, but his warning was cut short by the thunderous blast of the hatch caving inward. Rebel officers scrambled for cover behind control consoles and data screen, and Worf and Jossa hustled Captain Picard into cover as well. From the blackened breach in the wall, a flood of white-armored troopers burst forth, quickly spreading into the large room. From the raised command platform, a rebel officer tore a hold out pistol form a hidden wall mount and opened fire as the Admiral was whisked into cover further onto the command deck, and then seven other blasters opened up. Master Chief and the six bridge guards unloaded their weapons on the incoming throng, red bolts filling the air and sending exposed officers diving away. The stormtroopers hesitated before returning, evidently making sure that none of their primary targets were in the crossfire, and then added new blasts to the fray, E-11s and flechette launchers roaring.

The two soldiers by the door went down quickly under a hail of energy bolts and superheated pellets, but the stormtroopers were taking casualties as well, armored forms collapsing to the ground. Hunkered behind metal and plastoid fixtures, the rebels fired quickly and precisely, taking down four more troopers before they could begin to take up position behind the nearest consoles to the breached door. The imperial soldiers continued pouring in, peppering the chamber with fire, but carefully avoiding officers, even those who were caught out in the open. The armed guards, however, did not fair so well. A young woman crouched next to the Chief with a blaster rifle toppled too the floor, scorched from a blaster shot. Another trooper fell, and Lt. Worf took up his weapon, firing carefully into the strike team. Behind the loose defense perimeter, a few officers crawled along under cover of computers bases, making for the now ajar access hatch. One stormtrooper caught sight of the attempt, and unclipped a grenade from his belt. Master Chief fired a shot into the soldier's face plate, but the device left his hand before he fell to the ground, and it flew through the air, landing squarely in the open hatchway. It beeped and split open, unleashing a cloud of acrid gas, non lethal but enough to effectively block the route momentarily.

More imperial soldiers burst through the entrance and the firefight intensified. A beam of spun light skewered the Mon Cal lieutenant with the blaster behind the command deck railing, and he toppled to the deck below, right behind the Master Chief's position. Unfazed, the super soldier grabbed the hold out blaster from the floor and shifted it into his left hand. Making sure both his weapons were fully loaded, he lunged through a gap between control banks, twin pistols blazing, sewing destruction amongst the imperial ranks. Blaster bolts licking at his shields, the Chief emptied the two blasters, and then dove back under cover, shoving his spare ammo pack into one of the guns and discarding the other. Beside him, Tassadar crouched silently, watching the gunfight from behind a blast pocked terminal that barely hid him. The Chief looked at him sharply from behind his opaque face bubble, irritated at his lack of action, but a display set into the desk above fragmenting into molten slag brought his attention back to the battle.

"We can't hold them," Worf shouted over the clamor of gun fire, ducking behind a console that was shielding Picard and Jossa. A cry rang out from nearby, and another of the rebel soldiers fell. The stormtroopers continued their short advance, slipping from battered computer to smoking data display, and began to encircle the beleaguered command crew. As the gas that kept the Alliance personnel from slipping away began to clear, four more soldiers drew the devices from their equipment belts and tossed them into the pockets were opposing gunfire still rang out. The dense, acrid gas poured into the air, clouding the chamber in an immobilizing shroud. The Master Chief's sealed armor filtered out the gas, but the others were not so lucky, and they began to wheeze and cough violently, the riot suppressing chemicals interfering with their eyes and lungs.

As rebel defenders winced and hacked through the obscuring cloud, the unimpeded stormtroopers began to fan out, altering the firing settings on their weapons. His artificially enhanced eyes straining through the fog, the Chief could make out the enemy troopers, easily avoiding random blaster shots from the distracted bridge crew. An imperial trooper leaned down next to a squirming communications officer, evidently checking his face. After a moment, the soldier stood back up and pulsed a blue beam into the man's back, who collapsed onto the floor, quite still. "Looks like a stun bolt of some sort," Cortana muttered softly. In response, the Chief rose from his cover quietly, aimed his pistol, and fired. Even in the low visibility atmosphere, the Spartan's aim was precise, and the offending trooper dropped, stricken by a blast of energy to the head. The other stormtroopers, surprised at the return fire, turned towards the direction of the blast and opened up with their own weapons, blue streams filling the hazy room. Although their sight was also obscured, several bolts did impact the Chief's shields as he targeted the intruders one by one with his blaster, sparking and hissing as they hit.

Master Chief continued firing, and the stormtroopers intensified their own barrage, driving the Chief's body shield slowly down, the strength indicator on his helmet HUD blinking yellow and then red. The super soldier began to back through the settling haze, pumping the last shots from his blaster. A few troopers fell, but more took their place, determined to immobilize the defender. He felt his armored back hit the wall behind him just as the last of the blaster's power cell drained. "Chief!" Cortana warned as the energy shields around him flickered and failed. The soldier dropped the spent weapon and looked for cover, but there was none, he was pinned in the open beneath the command platform. Blue bolts impacted his armor one after another, creating a brilliant electrical distortion across its surface. The near tank grade plating could repel the brunt of the stun blasts, but the draining electrical haze was seeping in, and the Chief felt his limbs start to go numb. "They're overloading my processors!" the AI in his head called frantically, and then faded away into garbled static as she shut down. Through the now clearing mist, half a dozen troopers marched, still firing. A jolt of pain tore through the Chief's body, and he dropped to one knee, no longer able to feel his legs and other extremities. His brain beginning to cloud with a tingling sensation, the Chief collapsed to the other knee, lunging at the closest of the stormtroopers. The attack however was slowed by the Chief's weakened muscles, and another blue jolt to the helmet sent the besieged soldier sprawling.

Two of the faceless imperial soldiers grabbed him under the armpits and pulled, but found he was too heavy to lift manually; his powered armor weighed half a ton. Instead, one of the soldiers lay down his weapon and began searching for the Chief's helmet seal, the other troopers covering him from a safe distance. The stormtrooper's gloved fingers found the release node and depressed it and a blast of recycled still tinged by the noxious fumes of the riot grenades swept into the Master Chief's nostrils. The green helm was lifted away and cast to the floor, revealing a middle-aged man, with pasty skin, hard features and shot cut hair, beginning to grow out from the long time it had been neglected. The stormtrooper heaved the super soldier into a vaguely upright position and then withdrew back to his comrades, blaster rifle aimed squarely at the vulnerable man's head.

Although the stun bolts had virtually paralyzed him and made his head loll to one side, the Chief still had a fairly good view of the chamber. The imperial soldiers, perhaps twenty in all, had routed the last of the disabled resistance, and rebel officers decked out by stun blasts were being lined up along the floor, Lt. Commander Worf among them. Several individuals, including the rest of the Federation officers and Tassadar, were having their wrists restrained in stun cuffs. Off to the left, Admiral Ackbar and his remaining top lieutenants were being led down the command platform stairway at gunpoint. The Alliance had lost, and the Empire was going to collect its spoils.

As the captured Admiral's feet hit the main deck and he was paraded to the center of the room, all the stormtroopers save the ones guarding prisoners made twin ranks, flanking the main entrance. Master Chief tried to twist his numb head towards the door, but his shocked muscles were sluggish and slow, and his eyes were forced to remain on the Admiral, standing resolutely with his arms at his sides. The troopers snapped to attention and brought their weapons up in a simultaneous salute, and as they did this, the Chief noticed several of the rebel officers shiver, their eyes fixed on the entrance in horror. The source of their consternation quickly became evident, as it strode in-between the ranks of imperials and into the Chief's view.

Towering over Admiral Ackbar, his hands clasped onto his belt, stood the Lord of the Sith, Darth Vader. The Mon Calamari looked resolutely back, his ichthyic features hiding any trace of fear. Vader took a moment to inspect each of the captured defenders, and then turned to a stormtrooper captain. "Did you detain any others?" he asked in his deep, haggard tone. The trooper bowed slightly. "No Lord Vader, these were the only rebels we located in this room." Darth Vader swung his gaze back to Admiral Ackbar. "Where are the other members of your so called High Command?" His only response was silence. The Sith unhooked his fingers from his belt and stepped closer to the Admiral and his staff, causing a few of them to step involuntarily backwards. "Where is the jedi? The one called Jacen Solo?" he asked, impatience beginning to seep into his voice. The Admiral was taken aback by the last comment. The Jedi's name was Solo? How could that be? How could Vader even know that the human was with the fleet? In an almost imperceptible motion, the Mon Calamari's right eye flicked towards Picard in confusion. Most humans would not have noticed, but the force provided focus and clarity no normal being could hope to achieve, and Darth Vader followed the quick glance.

The Dark Lord made a half turn towards the bald Captain and looked him over once more. "Bring him to me," he ordered. Two stormtroopers shoved their blasters into Picard's back and pushed him forward. When Vader turned fully, the stormtroopers each laid a hand on Picard's shoulder, forcing him to look into the Sith's expressionless helm. Staring into the opaque, black figure that towered over him, Picard suddenly found it difficult to speak or even breath and fear he had not felt for a long time gripped him. "Identify yourself," the dark one said in a monotone. Despite the fear that was permeating him, the Captain still managed a measure of defiance, and he remained silent. In response to this resistance, Darth Vader clenched a fist hidden under his long cloak. "Identify yourself," he said again, his electronically filtered voice growing darker. "I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the United Federation of Planets," the man said suddenly, startled that the words were coming out of his mouth.

"The Federation," Vader echoed softly, looking off for a moment. "Where are the others under your command? Where is the jedi Solo?" To his surprise, Picard felt his mouth open again, about to deliver the requested information. After all, it was nothing of relevance, no use in risking harm to himself by withholding the rough location of Jacen Solo. Then something quivered in his mind, his conscience perhaps, Starfleet training long recessed in his brain. It felt wrong, as if someone was poking at his mind to see what was inside. Whatever it was, he wasn't about to appease it. The Captain's lips closed. Vader glowered at him for a moment and then straightened up. "A strong mind this one has," he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. "He could be useful yet." With a twirl of his black cap, Darth Vader turned back to Admiral Ackbar again, leaving Picard with a strange feeling the pit of his stomach.

"I will ask one more time Admiral, where are the other rebel commanders?" Ackbar stared impetuously back, his black eyes focused and alert. "You will not find what you seek from me, nor any of my crew dark one. Even in this victory, you have failed." Darth Vader paused, mildly surprised by this continued insolence, and then strode forward until Mon Calamari and sith were mere inches apart. "We shall see." Vader's right arm shot out from under his dark mantle, gloved metal fingers finding purchase on the rebel's orange neck. Slowly, with a single arm, the dark lord hefted Ackbar into the air, the Admiral's hands prying at Vader's durasteel grip in vain. The Alliance officer's recoiled from the spectacle, looking on in horror. Even as his grip tightened on the amphibian's throat, Vader turned his head to the stormtrooper commander. "Escort Picard to my assault shuttle and prepare for immediate departure. When the ship is secured, have your men take the rest to the main hangar for transport." The white-armored man nodded in recognition and motion for two of his troopers. The soldiers pushed Picard towards the burned-out doorway and placed their rifles at his back again. "Move," one of them said. As they passed, Jossa tried to break free of her captors, to aid her captain, but a blaster butt to her stomach sent the security reeling to the floor.

Vader tuned his gaze back to Ackbar, who was now gasping shallowly, his arms swing at his sides. "Let this serve as an example to traitors," Darth Vader said aloud, and the synapses in his brain began to send the electrical discharges to the mechanical arm which would break the Mon Cal's neck. However, the thought was never completed. From the row of prisoners, a shout of alarm rang out, and Vader shifted his attention yet again. It was then that the sith lord saw the crumpled body of a stormtrooper flying through the air straight at him. .


	9. Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

In a fluid motion, the Dark Lord side stepped the living projectile, easing his grip and sending the Admiral Sprawling onto the floor. Flesh and plastoid whipped past, propelled by an unseen force. Before the stormtrooper even impacted the Bridge wall behind them, Darth Vader whirled around to face whatever had just deprived him of a soldier. The row of prisoners was shattered, imperial troops laid out across the floor and rebel officers stumbling backwards, shell-shocked and unguarded. Standing alone in the center of the group was a tall reptilian, his hands outstretched at his sides, the tattered remains of metallic stun cuffs hanging from his wrists. The creature was unlike any Vader had even seen before, and what was more, he could sense much power in it, perhaps even the force.

Darth Vader's lightsaber flew into his hand and ignited in a blaze of crimson. "Another jedi? Perhaps the rebellion is better organized than I had suspected," he said, slowly circling towards the alien, who followed him with deep, black eyes. Darth Vader's vanguard of troopers snapped their blasters into firing position and trained them on the towering scaly being, which was easily as tall as Vader himself. The two soldiers escorting Picard paused as well, doubling back to see what the dark lord was about to do, their rifles still leveled at the Captain. "I sense much darkness in you," Darth Vader continued, probing the creature with the force. The alien's mind was unusual, clouded and complex, difficult to read. The tall alien looked back silently, and Vader felt a presence gather around him, as if he was being scanned in return.

"You will release this people and remove yourself and your minions from this vessel," the creature finally said, his voice a command. Although the words were clear, the alien face bore no mouth to produce them. A telepath, Vader realized, even beings strong in the force could not convey thoughts so easily. "You are not in a position to give orders to me, no one is," the Dark Lord replied, pointing his saber at the creature's chest, encased in dull black and tan armor. "You will submit to my stormtroopers, or I will slay you myself." The creature showed no recognizable emotion looking slowly from the threatening lightsaber back to Vader's dark helm. His gaze bore into the sinister mask, eyes shifting color slightly. "I sense a tortured soul within that dark case. Deep within the blackness, I can see that you do not wish any of us harm. Come, bring that spark of compassion to the surface, Adun will show you the way."

Vader was startled by the defiant words, this creature sounded like many of the jedi he had hunted over the years. Many had made impassioned speeches like this one, beckoning him back to the weakness and chaos of the so called light side with empty promises and false hopes. None had ever succeeded, and each had paid for their efforts with their lives. This farce had gone on too long, whatever this being was, it had to be silenced. Darth Vader drew his saber into a slashing position. "You are bold, creature, but also unwise. I sense much power in you, power that can be molded. Stand down, or you will die." The reptile crossed his long arms in defiance and became silent again. The Sith waited for a moment, and then shifted his weight onto one foot. There were other, more important matters to attend to, and this being had wasted far too much of his time. "If that is your choice," he said grimly.

Darth Vader surged forward, his body a blur tipped with the glowing spear of his lightsaber. Instead of stepping back or trying to dodge the attack, the alien watched impassively with dark eyes for a moment, and then flickered into motion. Where the red energy blade should have been plunged into the creature's thin chest, it instead remained immobile in midair, inches away from its target. Along it's surface, as well as all throughout the air surrounding the alien, pulses of lightning-like energy sparked flickering from object to object. Stormtroopers and rebels alike recoiled from the spectacle, a strange, gut wrenching aura of uneasiness and fear gripping them. Vader, still clutching his blade, stared at the being, who had unclasped its arms and were holding them outwards at him, as if they were holding the deadly weapon back. Powerful this creature was indeed, but Vader doubted it have dealt with one such as him before. Tightening his grip and drawing deeply on the force, the Sith lord pushed.

The energy field that encompassed the pair suddenly increased in intensity, flecks of translucent lightning racing from ceiling to floor. The alien's eyes bulged and the crimson blade plunged deeper in, now scraping the exterior of the chest plate. The alien's arms went limp for a moment and then flexed, bending inwards towards the attacking warrior. A burst of cloudy neon light surged up the lightsaber's length, diffusing itself along Vader's outstretched arms. A strangled his of pain emerged from his opaque facemask, but he pressed on doggedly. Behind the two combatants, the command deck's railing creaked and twisted, rungs pulling themselves into the air one by one. When several meters of the suddenly animated barrier had wrenched free of the floor, they bunched up and hurled towards the towering alien's undefended back. The projectile hit, and its target hunched forward slightly under the blow, pushing the saber through thin armor plate and nicking scaled skin. Vader looked up into the reptilian face of his opponent, contorted with concentration. "Never underestimate the power of the dark side," the cyborg growled, and then pushed again, focusing his energy onto the hilt of his lightsaber.

For a fleeting second, the red blade moved further in, hissing as it vaporized outer layers of flesh. Then the assailed being's eyes bulged and his arms swung out. The blade stalled again, and the chamber suddenly became absolutely silent, sound and even light draining away, forming a void around the combatants. Then, with a thunderous crackling noise, a globe of luminous shimmering energy seemed to blossom from the alien's chest, engulfing the center of the bridge in blinding light. The two were transfixed for a long instant, Vader unable to wrench any of his limbs into motion and the alien similarly immobilized. Then the electrified field collapsed.

In a burst of noise and motion, Darth Vader and a group of stormtroopers unfortunate enough to be behind him were blown back, thrashed by a gale of wind and energy. Streams of lightning pulsed down the length of the chamber, etching charred holes into walls and terminals and skewering imperial soldiers. Picard, momentarily unwatched, was able to throw himself out of the way of the destructive wave, but his guards were less responsive, and both collapsed backwards into the stream of energy, armored chests and helmets melted and ruptured. Shattered stormtroopers were picked up by the wave and hurled through the entry way, contorting like leaves caught in a monsoon. Darth Vader stumbled backwards as well, his lit saber still clutched in hand. However, instead of succumbing to the wave, he regained his balance and began to push back into it, leaning forward and driving through the deadly gale, footfall after footfall bringing him closer to his target. The alien, his lanky hands stretched out before him, guiding the energy wave, sent strands of searing lightning coursing towards the dark lord with jerks of his finned head. The energy bands lashed into Vader, but they were met by his own elemental forces, force barriers that deflected the lightning into the already scarred deck plate. The reptilian alien focused his eyes again and pushed harder, but the dark lord kept on coming, psychic energy breaking off him and diffusing into the turbulent air.

Captain Picard found himself in a heap on the floor, mere meters away from the torrent of electrified energy that was still screeching into the hall and sweeping shocked stormtroopers with it. From behind the stun-shocked body of a rebel officer, Picard could see the alien being Tassadar with his arms outstretched, guiding the wave of energy against the imperials. Before him, the imperial commander, Darth Vader he had gathered, was weathering the energy gale, drawing ever closer to his assailant. For a moment, the Federation officer was transfixed by the scene, forget the grave peril he and his crew were in. This Tassadar was exhibiting a power that was even approached by anything he had ever seen in all his years exploring and patrolling the galaxy. And there, in the midst of this magnificent and deadly stream, stood the towering imperial leader with his crimson lightsaber, easily repelling the attack with an unseen force. He had never seen the jedi Jacen Solo or Aayla Secura in action, but from Will Riker's descriptions of their exploits, this being's abilities surpassed even theirs.

A bolt of translucent lightning etching its way just inches over his head brought the Captain out of his wonderment. Darth Vader was pushing closer and closer to Tassadar, splitting the weakening stream of energy around him and deflecting it into air. Their would-be savior was weakening, and the imperial commander would be within striking range with his energy blade in only moments. The exhilaration brought on by the incredible spectacle quickly ebbed away, replaced by growing fear. Picard wasn't about to let himself or any more of his crew become captives of the brutal empire, not again. This conviction however was tempered by doubt, what could he, an ordinary human shackled in restraining cuffs, do against a titan of such enormous power? He glanced around the chamber desperately, searching for someone or something that could turn the tide against the dark force user.

Most of the rebel officers, as well as Lt. Worf lay still unconscious, mercifully several meters away from the deadly conflict. The remaining aware officers, as well as the unhindered stormtroopers had scrambled away from the fight and were watching it unsmilingly, entranced. The Captain couldn't see Jossa or the Master Chief from where he lay, but they were most likely unconscious as well. As Picard strained to see any other possibility of aid, his gaze caught a shimmering fleck of light from the battle, reflected on a smooth, metal surface, the stock of a blaster rifle, just an arm's length away. Evidently, one of his unfortunate escorts had dropped the thing before being swept up by the mighty wave and out into the hallway beyond the bridge. Picard stared at the weapon for a moment, and then, against his better judgment, scrambled over the fallen rebel and clasped his bound hands around the device.

The blast rang out, barely discernable above the roar of Tassadar's failing barrier, but the dark lord of the sith sensed it even as the bolt left its chamber. His lightsaber hand shot behind him and deftly deflected the bolt with a flick of the wrist, but the damage was done. Seeing his last chance, Tassadar bundled his remaining psychic energies together and released them in a pulse of coruscating lightning that caught the distracted sith of balance. A blur of black durasteel and armor-weave cloth, Darth Vader flew backwards, clawing against the overwhelming wave in rage. He tumbled out of the bridge and was propelled down the length of the security hall on the chest of the titanic energy blast. Then the shimmering pulse destabilized and exploded outwards, hurling Vader and the tattered remains of a handful of unfortunate troopers further away. Expanding bands of burning psionic energy tore through the floors and wall bulkheads, sending support beams and conduits crashing into the hallway. A plume of dissipating energy and crushed metal gushed down the hallway and into the bridge, where imperial and rebel looked on in amazement. The cloud cleared, revealing a mound of debris from floor to ceiling, blocking the path.

Tassadar stood fixed, eyes fixed on the destruction he had wrought. Around him, those who could stand slowly began to stir, as if they had forgotten where they were. Picard wearily picked himself of the floor and surveyed the room again. Out of the original squad of stormtroopers, only seven remained, scattered throughout the chamber. One of them, standing behind a badly damaged control terminal across the room from Picard, raised his weapon and aimed it uneasily at the immobile reptilian alien, and a few of the others followed suite. Picard was quick to level his own weapon at the threat, but the trooper did not fire immediately. The alien had fixed him in a hard stare, and the soldier was evidently having a difficult time willing his fingers to pull the trigger. "I think perhaps you should reconsider," the Captain called out, his blaster still raised. The trooper glanced from Tassadar to Picard to the battle-scarred doorway and then back to Tassadar, who still had him fixed in a withering glare. Behind his faceplate, the trooper gulped and finally lowered his weapon and motioned for his remaining companions to do the same. Dying for one's empire was all fine and good, but starring down a creature who had bested a sith lord had a way of changing a person's priorities.

As it turned out, as soon as the stormtrooper unit had been disarmed and placed under guard by Alliance crewers, Tassadar collapsed to his reverse-jointed knees. The wounds he had sustained during the duel were not particularly dangerous, but he had expended all of his energy waylaying the dark lord. He certainly didn't have enough willpower left to produce another psionic pulse or even walk for that matter.

Once Picard and Jossa had freed themselves from their bond and ensured that Tassadar was still alive and conscious, they moved over to where the Ackbar had fallen, now crowded with the remaining command staff. Two of the Mon Calamari officers were on their knees, supporting the wounded admiral. Vader's grip had taken its toll, and Ackbar was limp on the floor, his breathing infrequent and labored. One of his lieutenants had taken an emergency medical kit from behind a wall panel and was attaching sensor nodes to the Admiral's neck. The other held a small panel that was slaved to the medical scanners. "There's a lot of internal damage, I can't be sure how much without a med droid," the officer said. "We need to get him out of here now!" Before he could rise however, Ackbar put his finned hand weakly on the man's shoulder. He tried to shake his head, a pain shot through him when he did, and breathing became even more difficult. "No. No, get out of here, to the docking bay he gasped slowly. "I'm to far…" A fit of wheezing coughs interrupted his speech, but when the other officers moved for the med kit again, he brushed them off weakly. "I'm just dead weight," he continued. "My legs, can't feel them, hard to breath. Get the rest out, carry out evac plan." He paused, breathing in deeply. "I might be able to… break the blockade long enough to let the rest of the fleet through. Get as many of the crew as you can to the Redemption and the Republica; make for exit vector 0045 mark 4324 mark 6… I will clear the way." He closed his large, black eyes, which were beginning to cloud. "Move me to a helm station."

The officers exchanged worried glances, but they complied, and with the help of the Captain and Jossa, heaved the Mon Calamari to a nearby control interface, only slightly charred from the battle. They propped him in a chair gently, his legs scrapping the deck plate lifelessly. Weakly, he lifted his right arm onto the control panel and tapped a few controls, then sighed. "Very well, this will do. Get all personnel out of here, and then seal the service passage way, use explosives if you have too." This order garnered alarm from his subordinates, as well as Picard. "Seal you in?" one of them asked, glancing in worry to the other officer. "Yes, the automated systems are offline; some has to stay at the helm." Ackbar replied weakly, his words interspersed with ragged coughs. One of his eyes swung lazily to look at Picard, who was standing back from the group. "Captain," he wheezed. "Perhaps I was too quick to judge your motives. If you can aid our cause, then do not be discouraged on my account." The captain nodded. "Of course, my men and I have pledged are full support behind your cause. Still, I don't see why you must remain here. Surely proper treatment can…" Admiral Ackbar raised his left hand, the only one he could still use, to stop Picard.

"It is my ship, and if she can do anything to save the others, than I must be at the controls. If I am to die this day, than this is the way I shall do," he said slowly, pausing for deep, increasingly shallow. One of his eyes was sealed shut, but with the other he gazed out into the blackness of space through a nearby viewport, the still raging battle illuminating the view. Far in the distance, the vanguard of star destroyers was looming ever closer. "I need a way to get the evacuation orders to the rest of the crew."

"I think I can help with that," a female voice said from behind. Limping towards them, still shaking of the effects of the stun blasts, the Master Chief was fastening his helmet back onto his head. As he approached, it occurred to Picard that even onboard the Enterprise, he had never seen the soldier's face. "I've set up a coded frequency in what's left of the comm network. You'll be able to punch one transmission, maybe two through the jamming," Cortana continued, her voice tinged with the static discharge of the stun blasts. Ackbar slumped down into his chair and closed his good eye. "Very well, Lieutenant Dahrk," he directed to one of the rebel officers, a male human. "Get these men to the primary docking bay. Once you're out, relay my orders to the Redemption. She's in command now." He sighed one last time, the sound strangled under his failing lungs. "May the Force be with you, all of you."

Darth Vader glowered at the impassible mountain of rubble that lay between him and the bridge. Around him lay the battered corpses of his storm commando squad, obliterated by the vile reptilian. A being of impressive and unusual abilities to be sure, but an obstruction, and at that moment, Vader would have liked nothing more that to relieve the being of its head. He had been uninjured by the psychic attack, but it had waylaid his plans to seize and decapitate the rebel leadership. However, it was unimportant, interrogating the Alliance High Commanders could have provided valuable information about the allies and locations of resistance cells, but Vader was growing tried of this game. Simply wiping out the remained of the rebel craft would serve much the same purpose, without their leadership, the various rebel groups would fall apart.

Far more interesting to him, and the reason he was on the rebel command ship at all, was the unexpected discovery that a jedi, perhaps even the one his new apprentice had mentioned, was present on the craft. Aayla Secura had revealed little about the young knight other than his name, and Vader had had the sense she was hiding something from him, a matter he would deal with upon his return. In the short time since the Emperor's defeat, she had also made mention of how she had come to Poloon Three, a tale of extra-dimensional and time travel that the dark lord had believed was only a fevered dream brought on by Palpatine's final onslaught. However, he had recognized several of the sentients from the story as being on the rebel bridge, including the creature he had dueled. They would have been interesting to interrogate, but they were mere distractions, easily forgotten. There were large matters that the dark lord had to attend to, and he had wasted enough time and man power in this desolate star system. There was a new apprentice to train, his ever illusive son to locate, a galaxy to bring out of chaos and under his rule.

Darth Vader turned briskly away from the collapsed hallway and paced away, in thought. As was his custom, he would have enjoyed meeting this new jedi in combat, offering him the power that the dark side brought, and slaying him personally if they refused. As he reminisced on the dozens of times he had done this, an odd feeling of doubt crept into the back of his mind. If faced with such a contest again, would he really kill the jedi? Would he offer them salvation in darkness? How many of his actions and beliefs were simply the will of the fortunately late Emperor. Palpatine's corruption ran deep, so deep that even now, days after his eradication, his tainted words and orders still infested Vader's mind. Now that he thought about it, his reasons for falling from the Jedi had become clouded, memories replaced by emotions, some seemingly out of place. Passion, feeling, the yearning for power and order, all still remained firm in his mind, but the hatred and tumult in his mind that had driven him for decades were becoming less distinct, changing. Memories, happy memories he had not thought of in years crept back, snippets of his life as a Jedi padawan, images of his old Master Obi-wan Kenobi, the beautiful face of his young wife, long dead. Think of her, what he could remember of her strengthened almost alien emotions in him, doubt, longing, regret….

Just as soon as this flood of memory had come, it left, and Vader was left as he had been for decades, a hard being, fierce and unrelenting. Still, something was left behind, like a seed in a dead field that might again see rain.

The Lord of the Sith rounded a corner and brought into view the stretch of hull were his team's incursion had occurred. The three stormtroopers he had left on guard, standing in-between the corroded holes the boarding draft had burned to gain entry into the craft, snapped to attention as Darth Vader approached. The sith stopped in front of one of them, the colonel left in charge of the landing vessels. The stormtrooper saluted. "Lord Vader," he said rigidly. If the man was startled to see his master return unescorted and without prisoners, his strict training kept him from showing it. "Colonel, contact the remaining boarding units. Inform them that the bridge incursion has failed, and to abandon their capture objectives. They are not plant their sabotage charges and evacuate within ten minutes," Darth Vader said, and then glanced back down the hall. "Don't wait for the rest of the squad, they won't be coming." The trooper saluted again, and immediately began relaying the orders over his helmet comm unit, his head inclined in concentration.

Vader brushed passed the other soldiers and entered one of the wall breaches. It was the largest of the boarding craft, the size of a light freighter and large enough to carry a single man fighter. The Sith Lord ducked under low slung bulkhead reinforcements and made his way forward, past empty seats and crash webbing for combat landings. In the craft's small cockpit, a lone pilot, dressed in full flight gear, sat quietly, monitoring the few rebel fighters that still buzzed past outside. The clank of heavy boots on deck plate, and the infamous drawl of Darth Vader's breathing apparatus alerted the imperial of his arrival and he straightened up, trying to look as attentive as possible. Darth Vader disliked slouches. "Ready my fighter for immediate departure," was all that the cyborg said, and then turned pacing back down the length of the ship, towards the launch tube where his personal starship waited. The pilot obediently complied, an abstract feeling of pity for any rebel starfighter to cross the dark lord's path seeping into his head.


	10. Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Eight

"Someone's coming," Jacen said cautiously, his senses acutely scanning the area ahead. Behind him, Truul and a squad of five rebel soldiers moved quickly through the deserted halls, their blasters at the ready. They had already lost a man to an imperial patrol during the short trek towards from the bridge, and Truul wasn't about to risk anymore of his men. The Major motioned to his troops with his left with his gun hand, his right still hanging limply in a sling. The rebels understood the order and slipped quickly into side door s that lined the hall. Jacen and Truul moved into a side passageway and hunkered close to the wall, eyes fixed in the location that the jedi had indicated.

After only a few moments several figures, followed by several more turned a corner and moved quickly down the hallway towards the rebel position. The failing power systems, weakened even more by the charges the imperials were detonating all over the ship, had begun to short out light fixtures, and thus the approaching beings were bathed in darkness, appearing only as ghostly outlines. Truul tightened the grip on his blaster pistol and Jacen's thumb hovered near his lightsaber's activation panel. Even with his enhanced senses, the jedi could not determine the identity or intent of the incoming group, but the increased stormtrooper activity in the last few minutes gave him cause for concern.

"Can you make any of them out?" Truul whispered anxiously. Jacen shook his head, his eyes straining against the darkness. Then one of the lead figures approached close enough to catch some of the light that was still generated at the other end of the hallway. There was a gleam of white plastoid. Jacen threw his arm across the Major's chest and pushed him further into the shadows. "Stormtroopers, a lot of them," he breathed through clenched teeth. Truul nodded and moved his hand to sight his blaster into the hallway beyond. The first of the beings started to pass the opening, still vague, distorted silhouettes. Jacen spotted a likely target, one lacking the noticeable body armor of a stormtrooper, perhaps an officer, and leapt forward, grabbing its neck. His lightsaber burst to life and settled under the man's chin, casting an eerie light over the corridor. "All of you halt!" he ordered. "Throw down your weapons or he…" Jacen trailed off as his eyes adjusted to the light. Half of the stormtroopers around him weren't wearing their helmets and appeared to be unarmed, and the other half weren't stormtroopers at all.

Almost as soon as he had seized the suspected officer, two blaster muzzles were thrust into his face, both held by people he knew quite well. "Jacen?" one of them asked, a woman. Startled, the jedi looked over at his captive, whose throat was a centimeter away from a green blade of energy. Immediately, Jacen disengaged the blade and replaced it on his belt, adrenaline quickly being replaced by embarrassment. "Sorry captain," he said, blushing slightly. Picard regained his balance, and straightened his uniform. "No harm done, Mr. Solo, just try to pick your target more carefully next time."

Someone activated a glow lamp and the hallway was illuminated by a yellow glow. The Captain, Master Chief, and security officer Jossa all stood around him, each with an evidently commandeered blaster rifle in their hands. Behind them, the Klingon Lt. Worf, Tassadar, and ten rebel officers stood, some supported by partially unarmored stormtroopers. The imperials all shared resentful, furious expressions, although they cast nervous glances towards the towering reptilian and the weapons in the hands of those Alliance personnel who could walk unsupported. "What's going on here?" Truul asked gruffly as he emerged from the shadows, still hefting his blaster. One of the rebel officers, Lieutenant Dahrk, stepped into the glow lamp's sphere of light and responded. "Major, what are you doing here? Didn't you hear the evacuation order?" Truul shook his head. "No sir, we must have been in comm blackout area. Me and my men, and Jacen here were going to support the bridge guard. Got a little tied up with a stormtrooper patrol a few decks down." The lieutenant nodded. "The bridge has been evacuated, and we were making for the primary flight deck. All personnel are to abandon ship immediately, Admiral's orders."

Truul glanced around the gathering, his eyes lingering on the disarmed imperial soldiers. Whatever had happened up there, he sure as hell was going to get the details out of someone when this was over. "Where is the Admiral?" he asked, noting the Mon Cal's absence. Dahrk shook his head wearily. "He had to remain on the bridge, he was badly wounded. We were…" The lieutenant was cut off by an explosion nearby that shook the deck plate. Very nearby. "I believe it would be prudent to discuss this later," Lt. Worf said, swaying as he forced his stun-numbed legs to stand on their own. There was no argument.

The primary landing bay was a hive of frantic activity. Rebel personnel and droids of all ranks ran too and fro, load essential supplies and passengers into crammed transports. Others guarded the entry ways as aliens and humans in various states of hopelessness and injury, fleeing the scattered stormtrooper commando units and large sections of the ship that were being depressurized by imperial sabotage. Across the ship, Crix Madine and General Rieekan had retaken one of the other docking bays, as well as a large block of escape pods. The imperial resistance was scattered and weak; evidently they were retreating as well. The battered Home One was dying, and both sides were determined not to go down with her. Beyond the atmospheric shields that covered the launch opening, the Redemption was in view, its docking tubes ready to receive fleeing vessels. On the flagship's other side, the Republica also waited, the only hope for beings force to flee aboard life pods.

The trio of ships, along with a small collection of depleted fighter squadrons and a handful of freighters had formed together, and under the direction of the Admiral's final transmission, had begun to blast forward, heading for a position just over the Executor's bow. Close behind them, the rest of the imperial fleet was in pursuit, its Star Destroyers in full firing range. However, although the fleet was a perfect target for all of the imperial warships, they had eased their attack, confident in their victory and under orders to give the boarding parties time to evacuate. The captains of the remaining Alliance ships were taking advantage of the lull, and were dumping every spare joule of power into their engines, and the foremost of the fighters were already diving between volleys from the Executor's point-defense turbolasers.

"Was the mission successful Captain?" Riker asked, stooping on the shuttle Jailbird's loading ramp as Picard and the others ran across the landing deck towards the waiting ship. Jean-Luc glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of Lieutenant Dahrk as he lead the remaining bridge crew, Truul's squad, and a group of very dejected stormtroopers into one of the few remaining shuttles. "The Admiral was mortally wounded by an imperial incursion," he replied, pausing alongside his first officer as Jacen, the Chief, and Aleen Jossa helped the still weakened Tassadar up into the ship's mouth. "We had to leave him on the ship's bridge when the rest of the crew was evacuated, but I believe he has a surprise or two left for them before he goes." Riker nodded and moved to the side as Worf and Truul, who insisted on breaking off from the command crew and piloting "his ship" out, made their way towards the cockpit. When he was sure everyone was onboard, Picard paced up the ramp. "Were you able to make it here without incident?" he asked as Riker retracted the slanted platform behind him. When the ship was sealed, the first officer sighed and shook his head. "We ran into a boarding team on the way down." Riker paused, glancing into the crowded crew cabin. "Dr. Crusher didn't make it."

The Captain looked silently at Riker for a long moment, the mild expression he had been wearing on his face previous to the news now a mask. He shook his head slightly; the fighting must have gotten to him. "I'm sorry Number One, I don't believe I heard you correctly," he said. Riker placed his hand on the Captain's shoulder. The Captain and Dr. Crusher were quite close; such an unexpected loss would be hard to take. "The Arbiter saved the rest of us, but… I'm sorry Jean-Luc, she's gone." Involuntarily, Picard placed a hand onto his face and began to pensively rub it, his mind unable to accept the information. A blaster bolt must have struck too close, he thought, his ears were deceiving him. He pulled the hand down and was about to ask the suspect question again when his eyes wandered into the chamber beyond.

There, given a wide berth by the somber passengers, a slender body lay on a flight bench, its arms crossed at the chest. As if in a dream, Picard drifted away from Riker and moved too the body, his steps shaky and uneven. It was a woman, her eyes shut and red hair draped beneath her head. Before the face before him had even fully registered, Picard dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face. It was Dr. Crusher; his ears had not deceived him. "Beverly," he breathed, taking a cold hand into his own. Deep within him, a floodgate of emotions long years of training and an inherent fear of personal weakness had kept at bay broke down, and he wept. This woman, friend and confidant, and perhaps even something more, was dead, and it struck him at a far deeper and more personal level than anything ever had, even the loss of his ship and its crew. This almost irrational feeling of loss swept him up, and a new feeling poured into his mind, one he had not felt for years. He hated the Empire. Hated it as much as the Borg, and even more. The anger and despair that had built within him ever since the Columbus had attacked, since the Enterprise had been destroyed, since his crew had been captured, erupted forth and latched onto the singular thought. He was going to make the Empire, and all who served it pay, somehow, some way.

As he stared into Beverly Crusher's pale face, these thoughts slowly faded into the recesses of his brain. The rational parts of his mind tried to expel the dark thoughts, but they remained, far removed and hidden, but there nonetheless. Revenge could wait, but it would not abide unfulfilled forever. But for now, Picard drained of purpose and alone, left only with his tears. He did not resist as Deanna Troi laid an arm around his shoulders and helped him up into a seat. For that moment, he had the strength for nothing else.

The Jailbird shot out of the Home One's hold, right on the tails of the last fleeing transports. Truul maneuvered the shuttle away from the rebel command ship, falling into place with the fighter screen that surrounded the Redemption. "It looks like she took a lot of damage," Riker commented from the copilot's seat, gazing at the scores of blast marks that now adorned the frigate's hull. Truul adjusted their flight telemetry to bring up position to the ship's aft. "It'll make it out of here, made it this far," Truul replied. "Unless, of course, the Admiral can't deliver on his promise." The Major's concerns were not without reason, the Executor loomed directly ahead, emerald turbolaser streams gaining in intensity as the fleet grew closer. They were committed to the escape path, and if Ackbar couldn't pull one last trick out of his sleeve, none of them were going to leave the deathtrap. "I'm picking up signals coming in from behind, imperial fighters," Riker said monitoring the tactical display. Truul gritted his teeth and powered up the shuttle's minimal armament as fighters clustered around them broke off to waylay the new wave of Ties. The Executor, now filling the viewscreen, unleashed new torrents of fire upon the fleeing rebels, and the nearby frigate began to list under the withering barrage. "If he's gonna do it, he'd better do it fast," Truul muttered.

Admiral Piett stood on the bridge of the imperial flagship, a look of mild frustration on his face. The losses during the boarding action had been considerable, more than two hundred soldiers lost on approach and nearly a hundred more in the bowels of the Mon Calamari vessel, not to mention the dozens of Tie fighters destroyed while defending the boarding craft. If he had been allowed to proceed as he saw fit, the rebel fleet would be nothing more than flaming wreckage by now, instead of the force that was once again threatening to break the fleet's trap. Still, an order from Lord Vader could not be refused, and Piett had been forced to launch slow, costly strikes against the other rebel vessels, careful to avoid the Home One, even as his targets used it for cover. Even with a full battle group of destroyers at his command, the rebel's were able to launch a stalling resistance.

From a communications terminal, an officer called for him. Piett paced over quickly, eager to divert his gaze from the miserable spectacle outside. "Yes," he asked curtly. The young commander at the turned to him and saluted. "Sir, a transmission from Lord Vader's starfighter. He says you may fire at will, the Home One is no longer off limits." The glimmer of a smile crossed Piett's lips and he relaxed slightly. The boarding teams evidently had failed, but at least the battle could be ended swiftly now, without the protection of the rebel flagship, the remaining combatants could not withstand the Executor's full firepower, especially not at close range.

"Turbolaser grids A through D focus firepower on the Home One. Divert all our available Tie squadrons, as well as those from the main fleet to engage the remaining rebel support craft. Allow none to escape." Piett belted out orders, now in his element. As crewers rushed to comply, the imperial Admiral paced calmly back to the main viewport bank, boots clacking against polished deck plate. The colossal bulk of the Executor stretched out before him, the three rebel cruisers insignificant specks of to the port bow. These ships, the largest of which was only a quarter the length of his vessel, were quickly obscured as thousands of weapons platforms across the Super Star Destroyer's hull unleashed an unimaginable wave of energy against them. Piett would not have to face failure this day, he would not meet Vader's wrath again.

The rebel starships, enhanced and enlarged on his viewscreens by advanced imagining systems built into the transparisteel, shrugged off the first barrage and returned fire, but at only a few hundred kilometers and closing, they would not survive many more firestorms. Piett wondered what they could possibly be planning; attempting to escape by bypassing the imperial flagship was a fool's errand. At the angle they were coming at, the _Executor's_ guns would tear every ship apart before they even passed the bridge tower. However, the ships kept on coming, staying just outside of the Star Destroyer fleet's heavy guns, harassed by Tie fighters and shaken by unending volleys from the _Executor_. The remaining Alliance light cruiser his sensor officers had identified as the _Republica_ began to move off the _Home One's_ inner flank, slowly dropping under and then behind it. Piett raised an eyebrow. They were still using the flagship for cover even though it was no longer under Vader's protection, why? Piett considered and then cast the worry aside; the rebel command ship would be nothing more than atomized wreckage in moments any ways. "Keep focused on the rebel flagship. When it falls, the others will be without resources. They will fall."

As they raced forward, the remnants of the rebel fleet moved closer and closer, the _Home One_ and its shield absorbing volley after volley for its companion ships. Mon Calamari shipbuilders were renowned for the toughness and durability of their vessels, but no ship could withstand the full firepower of the _Executor_ for long. "Sir, the rebel command ship is altering its orientation," an officer called from a sensor post across the crew pit. "It's tipping of its central axis." Piett walked briskly to a display and looked on as a tech brought up a detailed view of the craft. It was indeed altering orientation, its closer side turning down towards the Executor's hull, its surface beginning to flame as turbolasers worked their way through failing shields. Odd, the Admiral thought, by turning in such a way, it was both exposing a flank that was already heavily damaged and also throwing off targeting fields for the cruiser's few remaining guns. It was possible that the damage had caused a loss of attitude control, perhaps even a gravity failure, and the imperial ship's sensors were picking up hull stresses indicative of such failures. Even so, the starship was very close, less than one hundred kilometers away, and the rebels were known for unconventional tactics when in dire straits such as this, even suicide maneuvers.

At almost three klicks long, the Home One would cause significant damage if it impacted, but such a possibility was highly unlikely. Capital ships of any make were not known for their maneuverability, and at the parallel angle the enemy craft was at, any such turn would tear the engine block right off of the ship. All the same, Piett didn't want to take any chances. "Target the thruster and engine clusters, alert me if there's any attempt to maneuver any closer to us," he said, pacing back to the viewing deck. Beyond the windows, a squadron of Tie Interceptors hurtled past, moving to join the fray that was now just off and above the port bow, illuminated by crisscrossing flashing flecks of red, green, and blue light. Tiny fightercraft harried each other over the smoking and damaged hulls of the rebel cruisers, intermittent bursts of yellow, memorials for fighter pilots caught in the path of the colorful streams. And still more ships entered into the desperate fight.

"Admiral," a lieutenant called again. "The _Home One_ is launching escape pods. The Republica is moving to collect them." Piett frowned, still gazing out at the light display. Despite it's heavy damage, the Alliance flagship was still the most heavily armored and powerful ship in their fleet, why would it be evacuating? Had they taken more damage than his analysts suspected? He looked at the image of the capital ship closely, picking over its exposed side. Aside from the swarm of escape pods streaming away from it to be picked up by the tractor beams of the other Mon Cal ship or be vaporized by turbolaser volleys and agile Tie fighters, the facing side of the ship was silent, blackened and scarred. Almost every weapons emplacement had been blown away and even the docking bays were collapsed and breached, but as a virtue of the alien engineering, the engines and shields were still online, although every turbolaser blew away another generator or thruster bulge.

Another concentrated burst from his heavy weapons tore through the _Home One's_ shields and struck the primary hyperdrive cluster. As the shockwave of the blast spread through the starship, other drive tubes went dead, and the rebel flagship began to slow, now carried only by its inertia. Piett smiled, the trap was complete. The Home One was now incapable of escape, and without her support, so were the remaining ships. A commander approached him from behind and offered a respectful salute. "Admiral, the rebel command ship has lost all drive systems and main power. Their inertial dampeners and life support systems are failing." Piett looked out at the waning battle a moment more and then turned to his subordinate, an air of victory about him. "Excellent. As soon as the…" A commotion from down in the crew pit diverted his attention before the latest order could be delivered. A man at one of the sensor adjunct posts was tapping his controls, confused. "What do you have to report," the lieutenant next to Piett asked, looking down on the man from his elevation. The crewer looked up at his superior, nervously adjusting the comm earpiece on his head. "I'm not entirely sure sir," he said. "There are unusual power fluctuations on the _Home One's_ far side." He looked over his displays again. "Docking bay and loading port areas."

The information filtered into Piett's brain and his years of command training and naval simulations disassembled and applied it to the situation outside. Then it clicked, made perfect sense. Unfortunately, it clicked too late. Before he could belt out another order, Piett's eye's caught sight of the viewport, now plainly visible, almost directly parallel to the towering bridge of the Executor. Then, as he watched, the Mon Cal ship shot to the side towards his ship, as if pushed by an invisible hand. "Explosive depressurization!" some on shouted. "All over the far side, all bays!" The rebel ship hurtled through the emptiness of space, sending startled fighter squadrons scrambling out of its way. Armor plate and communication outcroppings peeled away as the tubular vessel contorted under the strain of the sudden change in course. All over the imperial command ship, turbolasers furiously pounded the ship, but it was too massive, the blasts blew molten holes in its metal skin, but could not alter its course.

As his crew worked frantically behind him, Piett watch in horrible fascination as the massive projectile grew closer. The move had been brilliant, unexpected, and in an instant, it had turned the tide. For even without looking at one of the computer displays which now displayed course projections and damage estimates, he knew the impact would be fatal. There was no way to maneuver the _Executor_ away in time. As Admiral Piett watched the flaming rebel ship slam into his ship's perimeter shields and plunge through, a small consolation passed into his mind. At least he wouldn't have to greet Lord Vader with failure, and given a choice between that and the superheated structural pylon plummeting towards his bridge, he would choose the latter.

From the small cockpit of the _Millennium Falcon_, Han Solo watched as the remnants of the _Home One_ rend smoking chasms across the Executor's hull. As its bridge tower spouted flame, the former smuggler sent a respectful salute to the brave Mon Calamari who had just blazed them a path. In the seat beside him, the Wookiee Chewbacca let out a low growl, sharing in Han's gesture. Behind them, Leia Organa leaned on Han's chair watching the imperial command ship list heavily to one side, clearing a new path for the now tiny rebel force. "Thank you Admiral," she mumbled under her breath. The three of them observed the spectacle for a moment more before a Tie fighter streaked over the viewscreen, harassing the two remaining star cruisers as they rocketed out system, eager to escape the gravity field of the disabled _Executor _and the distant interdictor ships. Han flipped on the comm. "Wedge, you still hanging on up here?" After a moment, a voice heavily distorted by static replied. "Thanks to the Admiral. What's up?"

"Some of those fighters are still on the _Redemption_," Han said, pulling himself alongside a pair of B-Wings. "Can you keep them off until the fleet can jump out of this hell hole?" Wedge's X-Wing and several wingmen hurtled past from below. "On it general, they won't know what hit 'em." Han nodded, and flipped of the comm line. To the side, Chewie garbled something, indicating at a new group of signals on the freighter's heads up display. "Yeah, I see 'em," Han said, and then turned back to Leia. "There are a couple squads of Tie's coming from that command ship, harassing some of the stragglers. If you don't mind risking your nails highness, I wouldn't mind having you back down in one of those guns." Leia snorted a small laugh, recognizing his playful tone. "Well, I suppose Threepio wouldn't mind too much if I took over for awhile." Han turned sharply in his seat, a horrified expression on his face. "You let Goldenrod in the Falcon's guns?" Leia laughed again, and detached herself from the back of Han's chair. "Cool it flyboy, I don't think he would get behind one of those things if you bolted him there, she said grinning mischievously. Han turned back to his controls, his face slightly flushed. "Oh, right."

Leia slid out of the small chamber and made for the bottom-mounted quad laser cannons, and Han jinxed his ship into a roll, swinging back away from the main fleet. Chewbacca shifted through sensor readings and brought up their target, a Lambda-class imperial shuttle was twisting in-between rivers of green fire produced by a trio of pursuing Tie's. The small ships easily dodged the transports slow gun emplacements and continued their attack, tracing deadly lines across its shields. "There's something you don't see every day," Han commented, coaxing the _Falcon_ to go move faster. One of the Tie fighters broke off from the pursuit and hurtled towards Han, its laser cannons streaming. However, even before it could set up for another attack run, a set of red bolts erupted from under the Corellian freighter's hull and skewered the attacking ship, shearing the round cockpit from its wings.

"She can shoot," Han grinned, turning the _Falcon_ back at the remaining imperials. However, he found that they were no longer there. The golden carapace of the _Lady Luck _soared around behind the rebel Lambda, its shields absorbing micro meteors of pulverized fighter plating. Lando Calrissian's yacht pulled up along side of the _Falcon _as it swung around the shuttle again, making sure there were no fighters still tailing it. "Looks like we made it," Han said, his ship to ship communicator online again. "Yeah, we made it," Lando replied, subdued. "We lost a lot of good men today, too many. I don't know if the Alliance can recover." Han smiled. "Hey, they've still got us buddy. That's gotta count for something."

Before the pair of ships, the shuttle was moving quickly to rejoin the fleet, which was almost at a safe jump position. A transmission for the craft broadcast into both cockpits. "Thanks for the assist guys. I didn't want to see what the imperials had in store for stragglers," a gruff voice said. "No problem," Lando replied. The two pilots continued the exchange, but Han didn't hear the rest of it. Chewbacca suddenly let out a loud, warning bark, and Han shifted his attention back to his controls. Upon seeing what had triggered Chewie's ire, he yanked the piloting yoke to one side violently, sending the _Falcon_ into a spin away from the shuttle. "Lando!" he screamed over the comm, but it was too late. From beneath his contoured ship, a trio of green pulses pumped up into energy shields and plowed through them, tearing away at the hull. Desperately, Han wrenched his ship out of its roll and fired a concussion missile at the unseen attackers. The glowing projectile streaked through the night and exploded just below Lando's ship, smashing two Tie Interceptors and scattering their shattered remains in a mighty shockwave. However, a third ship easily avoided the blast and curved around Lando's ship which was now careening through space aimlessly, its engines and shields offline.

As Han dove after the attacking Tie fighter, Lando's voice crackled weakly over the comm, distorted. "...lock down the…loosing control of…Han, take care of Chewie and Le…you have…ellion is up to you…sorry." The sound cut off. "Hold on," Han said through gritted teeth, pushing the Falcon as fast as she could go towards the crippled yacht and its attacker. Fire spat from twin quad cannons tracing the tiny starfighter as it began another attack run. The Tie slipped easily through the hail of energy bolts and fired a new volley at Lando's flaming ship. The energy bolts tore through hull plate and ignited gases within, and gouts of flame raced across the hull. For a moment, time stood still in Han's mind, the _Luck _frozen in space, engulfed in flames, the enemy fighter racing past its prey. Then, in a final conflagration of fire, the ship exploded, and Lando Calrissian, general, gambler, friend, was no more.

For a moment, Han Solo was frozen, staring at the cloud of gas and debris that had once been his friend. His head was foggy, and the world slowed around him, as if he was wading through murky water. Then the angry roaring of a Wookiee nearby awakened him, and he was back in the present, his hands gripped tight on the control yoke. The imperial fighter had doubled back from the expanding wreckage, and ignoring the _Millennium Falcon_ was racing after the fleeing shuttle. The shock that shrouded Han quickly passed, and was replaced with anger, fury. His ship shot after the Tie Fighter, and he wasn't about to let it kill again.

Jacen Solo stood in the cockpit of the _Jailbird_ as Riker and Truul guided the ship towards the main fleet. The young Jedi however was not paying attention to the rebel ships, nor the two pilots, not even to the grieving passengers in the hold behind him. His thoughts were focused beyond the confines of the ship, set on a point in the blackness of space. Vader was out there, and he had just killed. Jacen did not feel General Calrissian and his crew die, but he felt his grandfather's reaction to it. The connection they shared at that moment was powerful and frightening, Jacen could sense the Dark Lords feelings, his motives and he in turn could feel Jacen's. In that moment of clairvoyance, Jacen was immersed in Darth Vader's anger, his distain, and his fear. They were as dark and powerful as he had felt before, on Poloon Three, and yet there was something different about them. In that brief instant, he could touch Vader's deepest wishes, his motivations. They were cloudy and distant, and Jacen could not comprehend their meaning, but through the haze one emotion was clear. Doubt. The Dark Lord of the Sith and new ruler of the empire was no longer sure of himself.

The moment of empathy passed as swiftly as it had come and Jacen was left only with the present. And for some odd reason, a feeling of hope.

"Can you maneuver this ship away from him?" Riker was saying as a blast rocked the ship. Truul frowned and shot a look at the commander. "What do you think I've been trying to do?" He turned his gaze back to the viewscreen, where the rebel fleet was preparing to jump into hyperspace. "Whoever he is, he's faster, more maneuverable, and more heavily armed then we are. Unless General Solo can get him off our tail, I don't think we'll be joining the fleet at rendezvous." The Alliance fighter force was still occupied keeping Ties off of the heavier ships, and if any of them did notice the embattled shuttle, they couldn't make it in time. And it seemed that the _Falcon _was having a hard time with their pursuer, who was jinxing nimbly through streams of quad laser fire. The fighter opened up again, and the shields shuddered under the hit, indicators on the control board glowing red. The shuttle's automated rear gun opened up as the fighter approached, but the Tie easily avoided the bolts and continued firing.

Another volley impacted the shields and they fell, allowing a few bolts through to the hull. The laser blasts blew away the pestering weapons emplacement and smashed the shuttle's hyperdrive. "Loosing hull integrity!" Riker shouted as the hits rocked the ship. "Shields have been taken offline." Screeching into view overhead, the imperial fighter overtook the craft and shot past it. Then the tiny craft decelerated slightly and flipped over, its fixed guns training on its target again. It hurtled back towards them, and its laser ports began to glow, ready to deliver the finishing blow. Desperately, Truul ignited the atmospheric thrusters, and his shuttle began to shoot up, but the enemy ship followed them, locked onto the ship with unshakable focus. Its pilot pressed the firing stud, and livid green pulses formed in their barrels.

Then came a jolt that almost knocked Jacen to the floor, accompanied by the sound of warping and tearing metal. For a moment none of those on the bridge could understand what was going on, and then the view screen was obscured by a wall of durasteel. There was the horrendous sound of the _Jailbird's_ wingsbuckling and snapping upwards as their flight locks were overcome filled the ship, soon accompanied by another deck-shaking impact as the shuttle hit a solid surface. Truul shook his head, clearing the stars out of his eyes, and then looked over at his copilot. Riker was clutching a cut on his forehead caused by the impact, his eyes squeezed shut. Behind them, Jacen was picking himself off the floor, hauling on the two command chairs. "You two all right?" Truul asked, looking back out the viewport, which was now filled by a solid wall of dingy metal. There was something familiar about the wall, he just couldn't place it. Another tremor ran through the ship, not an explosion or laser impact, but the controlled hum of machinery. On an impulse, Truul looked up through the viewport, and watched as the small slice of starfield that still registered through the window disappeared, another metal plate slowly blocking it off. The Major looked back down, and it dawned on him. For the first time in hours, a grin split his face.

The _Coral Iris_ floated a moment, stationary in space as the loading bay doors closed over their precious cargo. Then the freighter surged forward, its laser cannons thrumming to life. The Tie fighter took the arrival of the new ship in stride, and expertly flipped out of the way of the streams of laser fire, almost as if the pilot had predicted the deadly energy would appear there. Nimbly, the fighter dipped under the manta-ship's wing as it shot forward, peppering its shields with a new cannonade. The twin laser cannons on mounted into the wings of the _Iris_ swiveled back and continued they're interference fire, but the tiny ship dodged those deftly as well. Before it could reorient itself to fire again though, two new waves of molten energy blossomed across the Tie's path, this time from behind. The _Millennium Falcon_ was back on its target, and the gunner in the lower cannon pursued the rapid ship closely with deadly particle beams.

The Tie fighter seemed briefly indecisive, split between the retreating Mon Calamari ship and the attacking freighter. Han Solo, at the _Falcon's_ controls, forced the fighter to make its move, lobbing a missile directly in its path. Incredibly, the Tie turned and bore down on the projectile. The missile seemed to shudder, and then changed course, flying harmlessly off into empty space. The two combatants were now bearing down directly on one another, the _Falcon_ taking laser hits in its shields and the imperial fighter dodging the ones directed at it. The craft flew straight and true, neither willing to break off, weapons systems etching conduits of light in the vacuum.

But then suddenly, even as it seemed the two ships would collide, the Tie fighter broke off, spinning past the _Millennium Falcon_ and back towards Sullust's primary, a distant speck of red. "Oh no you don't," Han snarled and turned his ship in a sharp arc, and was right back on the imperial's tail. Beside him, Chewie growled apprehensively, staring at the fleet of Star Destroyers that still hung in the distance, toward which the fighter was heading. "He killed Lando," Han snapped back. "I'm not going to let him get away, he's going to pay." Anger still coursed through the man's veins, and he was no longer a freedom fighter or general, he was just a man out for revenge. Then he felt a warm hand fall onto his shoulder and he looked up, ready to berate whoever it was who had broken his concentration. Leia stood there, looking down on him with sadness in her eyes. "There's nothing we can do Han, he's too far away." She sighed. "You have to let it go." Han turned his head away from her sharply and shot back, "He killed Lando! You want me to just let him leave?" He bore down on the acceleration controls, and his ship moved closer to the fleeing ship.

"I know Han," she said, her voice quavering. "He was my friend too. But if we keep after him, you'll be running into a fight not even you can bluff your way out of. Do you think Lando would want you to do this, to die like this? The Alliance still alive, and it needs us, it needs you more than ever." She squeezed his shoulder lovingly. "But it's up to you, Chewie and I will follow you after that ship if that is what you really believe is the right course. Choose now Han, while you still can."

The man stared into the former princess's soft face, and then sighed. He slowed the ship, and the enemy fighter shot away, beyond reach. Leia squeezed his shoulder tighter and Chewbacca let out a sigh of relief, and Han slumped in his seat, letting the rage and adrenaline drain away.

Slowly, the _Falcon_ turned back towards the rebel fleet and blasted back towards them, bypassing a handful of Tie fighters that were fleeing a few parting bolts from Wedge and his squadrons. There were still freedom fighters left in the galaxy, only time would tell if there were enough. Sighing and looking back upon the Sullust system one last time, Han joined the ragtag fleet, and in a burst of motion, disappeared into blackness.

Mounted in the navigation socket of an X-Wing, a blue-plated astromech droid beeped and whirred in anticipation. Seated in the starfighter's tiny cockpit, a clean-shaven young man in full flight gear smiled. "Yes Artoo, I'll find someone to clear the muck out of your gears as soon as we dock." The little droid was notorious for his dislike for water, and the swamp planet he had just been on was quite wet. Thinking about the stormy world of Dagobah, brought a sad frown to the man's face, and he sighed. The meeting he had just had there was still fresh in his mind, and he was unsure of what his future would hold. Still, Luke Skywalker was a Jedi, and he was ready to face anything that would be thrown against him.

"Ready for realspace reversion in five," Luke said calmly, placing his hand on the engine controls. R2-D2 whistled that he was ready, and Luke depressed the control under his palm. Beyond the cockpit's transparent canopy, the darkness of hyperspace melted away into a thousand streaks of light. The ship followed these streaks as they morphed into distant stars, and Luke Skywalker was in Sullust's gravity field, already searching the sky beyond for the rebel fleet. It was not there. Instead, the colossal forms of nine imperial Star Destroyers loomed before him, giant wedges of gray durasteel and weapons clusters. Beyond they're lines, the battered and charred form of the Empire's flagship drifted, huge pieces of metal fused to it at odd angles. "What the… Artoo, shields up!" Luke ordered, overwhelmed by the sight before him. "Begin scanning for Alliance signals, if there are any left." Luke's X-Wing halted the inertia caused by the hyperspace reversion, and turned back, its engines flaring and wings deploying into combat positions. Directly before him, another shape loomed, a Star Destroyer sat in wait.

Invisible claws reached across space and seized the rebel vessel, Artoo screeching as the imperial tractor beam projector found purchase on the fighter. The tiny craft was tugged towards the cruiser's main bay, looming above like the toothless mouth of a giant. As the imperial craft completely filled his vision, Luke Skywalker had a distinctly bad feeling about this.

End of Part One


	11. Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Twenty Nine

A long, sleek form passed silently through empty space; the _Republica_ was on the move. Dozens of gashes and patches of blackened hull plate adorned the cruiser, a testament to the desperate battle the ship had recently survived. A faint aura of blue light trailed the ship, generated by half a dozen tubular thrusters arrayed at its rear. The energy emitting from the drives was far less than the powerful Mon Calamari vessel was capable of producing, just enough to inch the ship through the interstellar blackness. The _Republica_ was hiding, prey in a very dangerous game.

Captain Imal Ryceed stared out of her vessel's bridge viewport nervously, her eyes fixated on a huge rocky object that filled the light cruiser's screen. Around her, human and Mon Calamari officers monitored sensor stations and engineering readouts in silence, some occasionally trading anxious glances with each other. One of them, a human Lieutenant named Botrates, began to yawn, but swiftly stifled the sound with his hand. His eyes flitted over his fellow officers, and he hoped embarrassedly that none of them had noted the unprofessional behavior. However, the others were feeling similarly stressed and exhausted, so none of them paid Botrates any heed.

Ryceed, however, did notice, but instead of rebuking the officer as she might have done under more normal circumstances, she just sighed, flexing her long fingers as they lay folded on the small of her back. They were all tired; no one had gotten any real rest in the several days since the _Republica_ had escaped the battlefield that was the Sullust system. The Imperial ambush there had devastated the rebel fleet, and only two warships and a smattering of smaller vessels had escaped. Admiral Ackbar and his command ship were gone; the Mon Calamari had sacrificed his life to buy time for the _Republica's_ escape, as well as for the _Redemption_, the frigate that carried what remained of the Alliance High Command.

After pausing to retrieve the fighters and escape craft that had managed to slip away with them into hyperspace, the _Redemption_ and _Republica _split up. The frigate, carrying Mon Mothma, General Madine, and General Rieekan, and escorted by the few remaining Alliance corvettes and gunships, as well as Wedge Antilles' Rouge Squadron, was to make to make for the rendezvous point, a distant point in the Outer Rim. Ryceed's ship was to move to the same system, but by a different route. Since the rebel fleet had been routed, imperial patrols and interdictor checkpoints had formed a nearly impassible net over several sectors known to be hotbeds of resistance, hoping to crush the Alliance while it was still reeling from the recent defeat. Because of this, it had been difficult for the Mon Calamari cruiser to travel, forced to use obsolete hyperspace lanes and travel through uninhabited star systems.

Despite the best efforts of Captain Ryceed and her crew, the _Republica_, upon reverting from hyperspace to navigate around a system populated by several large gas giants and a late-stage sun, had finally been pinned. The tactical officers detected two Imperial Star Destroyers already in system, most likely hoping to catch any smugglers or rebels who dared to use the system for cover, and the _Republica_ had been forced to hide in-between a small asteroidal moon and its host gas planet, narrowly avoiding the notice of the imperial craft. The rebel ship was trapped in the mass shadow of the planet, and the patrolling imperial forces were inadvertently keeping the ship from venturing out into a clear jump area.

Ryceed, anxious to break the deathly silence that had settled upon the bridge, unfolded her slender hands from her back and turned from the viewport. "What is the status of those imperial destroyers?" the slim and neat captain asked, her normally smooth voice cracked and tired. A Mon Calamari standing at the primary sensor station double-checked the readouts before him before answering. "No change sir," he wheezed in reply. Ryceed smiled slightly. Traditional military discipline was sometimes absent among the volunteer ranks of the Alliance, so she appreciated it when someone appropriately acknowledged her rank. "The Star Destroyers are still blocking the most direct escape vectors. The enemy craft are covering each possible hyperspace inversion and reversion point with a sensor net, and with the amount of gravimetric distortion in this system, our choices are very limited," the officer concluded. Ryceed walked up next to him and looked at the readout for herself. "Have you been able to determine the pattern of their sensor scans?"

Another officer spoke up, and Ryceed turned to him. "They're patrol pattern is fairly straightforward, moving to each likely jump coordinate every fifteen minutes, and employing their passive scanners to sweep the rest of the system for strong signals," the man said wearily. "The active nature of this system's star has reduced some of they're sensor accuracy and range, but it has also cut off a large number of exit paths available too us. Even with only two destroyers, given our current location, the _Republica _will almost certainly be detected and cut off before we leave the mass shadow of the star and this gas giant." The captain sighed and ran her right hand through her short, brown hair contemplatively. "It seems that our only choice is to remain hidden until a hole in the sensor net can be located. Keep the ship on minimal running power, and inform me of any new developments."

The _Republica's_ starboard docking bay was abuzz with activity, as fighter pilots, technicians, and droids worked to ready the various craft in the hangar for combat. The atmosphere aboard ship had been tense over the last few days, its crew left with nothing to do save brood upon the devastating loss that had killed so many comrades might very well have been a death blow for the rebel cause all together. However, now that they had something to do, moods were brightening somewhat, and the sound of starship preparation was complemented with the low rumble of pre-battle banter.

From an open entry hatch, Commander William Riker watched the display of rebel resilience and spirit. He, like the rest of the Federation crew, was in a fairly dower mood. Considering the tremendous losses they had sustained over the last few weeks, the Enterprise destroyed, most of its crew likely in an imperial gulag, the death of Doctor Beverly Crusher was especially damaging to moral. The captain seemed to be taking it especially badly, and had been extremely reclusive and distant since they escaped the _Home One_. Of course, there wasn't much that any of them could do; with the attempts at contacting the Federation on most likely permanent hold, they were little more than baggage. None the less, Major Truul had made endeavored to make special accommodations for them, and thus the Enterprise's former crew and the other guests were allowed free reign over the non-sensitive areas of the ship.

And So Riker was leaning against the hangar doorway unobstructed, watching a little R2 astromech unit scurry along the crowded flight deck. It accidentally rammed into a mechanics tool kit and sent its contents spilling onto the deck. The tech cast a furious look onto the diminutive droid and began to shout insults, but as soon as the first words left his mouth, the droid was already rolling away, whistling something akin to a hasty apology. Riker stifled a laugh at the spectacle, and it occurred to him that even the simple mechanic robots had an easier time interacting with humans than Data did, and he was the most advanced cybernetic life form ever created in the Federation's history.

As Riker mused, his eyes wandered around the large chamber until they fell upon the other side of the open hatch. There stood the young Jedi Knight Jacen Solo, who also seemed to be taking in the sights. Young Jacen was of this galaxy, but not this time, for him it was all history. It must be a very strange feeling, Riker decided, living and even shaping one's own past.

The commander was about to speak to the man, but he first noticed that Jacen was staring fixatedly at one point in the chamber beyond, and so Riker followed his gaze. It fell upon a battered, gray vessel, so badly carbon-scored and patched with replacement parts that it looked barely flyable. On top of the ship, a tall, hairy humanoid, a Wookiee if Riker recalled the name correctly, was hunched over a piece of the hull that had been melted away by laser fire, and was welding a new armor plate in place over it, his eyes shielded by large, black goggles. Next to the ship's landing struts stood two other figures, human, a man and a woman. The man, dressed in a black vest, was fiddling the hydraulics power cable on one of the struts, while the woman, dressed in a white Rebel Fleet uniform, looked on.

With the rumble of machinery and conversation all around them, Riker couldn't make out what either figure was saying, but he was sure they were talking. The woman in white folded her arms and stepped closer to the man, but he continued working, evidently ignoring her. She shook her head and said something else, but the man seemed to still be ignoring her for the most part. The woman, frustrated, took another step closer, and unfolded her arms, gesticulating slightly when she spoke again. At this, the man froze, and then slammed the tool he was using into the starship's landing gear, creating a clang heard even over the racket of the flight deck. The man growled something and then turned away, and the woman faltered slightly, almost stepping away. Instead, she moved forward again, putting her arm around the man's shoulders slowly. At first he began to recoil, but when she did not let go, he slumped, and accepted the embrace. The two figures were in each others arms for a few moments, and then they were apart again, back to work on the rickety starship.

Riker glanced back at Jacen, who was still watching the two. "Do you know them?" Riker asked, moving closer. Jacen looked up, seemingly startled, and a faint redness crept into his cheeks. "Oh, well…" he paused, seemingly considering whether or not he should respond. Riker noted that the man looked very uncomfortable with the subject, and was about to retract the query when Jacen replied. "Actually, I do. They're…my parents." This gave Riker pause. The woman looked hardly twenty five, and the man not much older. How could they be the late teenage knight's parents? Then the obvious donned on the commander.

Jacen turned back to view his parents again, but they were gone, either inside the ship or hidden among the crowd. Sighing, Jacen straightened up, nodded at Riker in a distant manner, and walked off down the hallway, immersed in his own thoughts. Riker looked after him and considered following, but decided against it. The man had just as many problems as the rest of them did, cut off from home, suffering from the loss of one he cared about, and Riker felt he had no right to interfere. The Federation officer turned back to the flight deck and began scanning it again. After all, there was little else for him to do at the moment.

Captain Ryceed stared incredulously at the holo-projector before her, or rather the space above it. There, displayed in flickering bluish strands of code, a female figure floated, staring back obstinately. "What?" the image asked in a somewhat haughty female voice. "It's a perfectly valid plan. It's either that, or we stay her until those imperial cruisers leave. Are you willing to risk waiting?" Imal Ryceed didn't enjoy being talked down to, especially not by a droid, or computer, or what ever the AI Cortana was, and if it wasn't for her orders, she would have turned of the projector right then and there. However, before the _Republica _had split off from the other rebel warship, orders had come through from Mon Mothma herself that these strange, extra-dimensional visitors were to be given quarters and even some diplomatic privileges, and were to be well taken care of. In addition, it was stated than if any of them had useful information or expertise on a matter of significance and wished to consult Ryceed, she would be obligated to listen.

Ryceed grudgingly complied, but she tried to keep the last part of the order away from her charges; the last thing she wanted was advice from some random extra-galactic, diplomatic privileges or not. However, the final stipulation had somehow managed to find its way into the notice of Cortana, and ever since then, she had been delving into the non-secure portions of the _Republica's _computer network (Ryceed suspected that Cortana might be attempting to bend the "non-essential" clause in the arrangement.)

"So let me see if I understand this," the Captain intoned slowly. "You want me to take my ship _through a star_." Cortana's representation rolled its eyes and sighed. "You know what I said captain," she replied. Then the projection disappeared, replaced with a field of holographic stars. Other officers moved closer, interested in the antics of the brash AI. Few organic crewmen aboard the ship could talk the way Cortana did to Ryceed without earning a few weeks trash compactor maintenance duty.

From the starfield blossomed a small representation of the star system they were currently trapped in, a backwater known only by its survey designation BT-556072, complete with models of five gas giants, the primary, the two destroyers, and the _Republica_. Cortana's voice wafted over the projector's speakers again, and the model began to rotate slowly. "We are here, hemmed in by the gravitation forces of these two planets, as well as the outlier effects of the primary," Cortana began, highlighting each of the subjects in turn with a blue light. "These are the Imperial Star Destroyers. I will accelerate their patrol pattern." The two blips that were the enemy ships began to pirouette around the star, weaving a seemingly erratic course, one ship always on the other side of the sun from the other. "Now, due to the compromising nature of the gravitic forces in the area, and the impressive sensor capabilities of those ships, any run for a jump position on this side of the system will be detected by one of the destroyers, and we will be overtaken and destroyed." As Cortana drawled on, the representation played out her words, the tiny blip that was the rebel vessel making a break for the edge of the system, and being blown into pixels by a pursuing destroyer." Ryceed ran a hand through her hair again.

"Even though that course of action is doomed to end in failure, we still have a way out of here," Cortana continued. "If, in approximately seven minutes, when the orbital position of the planet we are orbiting is right, the ship moves at full speed towards the primary, the planet behind us will be enough to temporarily block us from the Star Destroyer's sensors. Then, instead of breaking off to the side, a move that would easily be detected, the _Republica_ alters its course slightly; it can pass through the star's corona here." The blip, regenerated after its previous attempt, followed the AI's instructions, and began to skirt the outer layer of the star. "I realize this is an unorthodox and dangerous maneuver, but from what I know of your shielding and heat dissipation systems, which are quite impressive, this ship will be able to hold together."

"Now, the hard part's over. By cutting straight across system, and angling down in orientation forty degrees after the star is passed, we can skirt under the second destroyer's passive scanning field and from there, and the ship can simply cruise into a safe jump position."

Her speech over, Cortana's map disappeared and her blue form grew again in its place. "Well captain, there you have it," Cortana said smugly. Ryceed's eyes narrowed at the projection's persistently disrespectful behavior, but her plan did seem to make sense. "Can you confirm her estimations?" the Captain asked Commander Gavplek, one of her second-in-commands. The human man, who also served as the ship's chief tactical officer nodded slowly, as if still thinking over what Cortana had said. "I believe it can be done," he replied. "As long as we navigate around any potential flares and stay at a sufficient altitude, the shields will hold." Ryceed paused to consider again, and Cortana spoke up. "Six minutes until the orientation. The window won't last very long," she warned, trying to add a touch of respect back into her tone. The captain shot another hard look at the projection. As much as see loathed being upstaged in front of her command crew, remaining in the system any longer was not an option. "Make ready."

Five and a half minutes later, the Republica shot like a torpedo out of its hiding place, its sublight drives blazing incandescent blue. As the long craft approached the target star, one of the imperial destroyers picked up a power spike in system. It altered course, and was soon navigating past the sensor barrier of the nearby gas giant. However, by that time, the rebel ship had already plunged into the star's incinerating corona. Superheated gas lashed against the Mon Calamari cruiser's shields, but they held, dissipating most of the obliterating heat. However, some of the energy was seeping through, and the ship's outer hull began to glow, surface blisters beginning to warp. A strip of durasteel plate began to peel away from the hull, curling backwards like a sheet of molten parchment paper.

At last, as the shields were beginning to overload, the cruiser burst from the cover of the star and angled down, out of sight of the destroyer that was occupied far above. Ryceed slumped into her command chair slightly with relief, and then caught herself. "Damage report." The rest of the bridge crew was also relieved, and the response was surprisingly cheerful in tone. "Moderate damage to the section B-4 and C-4 ablative armor plate. No casualties or other significant damage." The captain nodded, and glanced at the increasingly smug Cortana. "Your welcome," the projection prompted, and Ryceed inclined her head slightly towards her, a sign of grudging respect. "All right, renter the rendezvous point into the navicomputer and set course for the closest jump position, speed…" she never finished her sentence. From one of the ancillary sensor stations, the one controlling the ship's passive scanners, a Devaronian crewman spoke up. "Sir, I'm picking up another power source in our immediate vicinity."

The Captain leaned forward in her command seat warily. "One of the destroyers?" The red-skinned man altered some of his controls. "No, it's not showing up as any known type of power source. However, it's definitely artificial; the emissions are far too regular for a natural phenomenon." Another sensor officer checked his own readings. "I believe I have localized the source, fifteen thousand kilometers off the port bow." Ryceed swiveled back to the viewport, which was now showing empty starfield, the star was far behind and above the _Republica_ now. "Show me."

The forward center panel switched from one starfield scene to another, the second with the system they had just escaped as a distant backdrop. "Increase." The viewport zoomed forward, and what was once an impossibly distant speck now filled the screen. The Captain, along with everyone else on the bridge looked at the drifting object in fascination. "Nothing on file for that Captain," an officer said, answering her next question before she even asked it. From her projector platform, Cortana looked on as well, although she augmented her sight with a direct linkup to the visual scanner that was showing the organic crew the object. She sifted through her vast memory banks and swiftly compiled the appropriate information, applied it to the situation, and reached a conclusion. "Do you know what this is Cortana?" asked Ryceed, her attention split between the object and the hologram. The AI nodded. "Care to enlighten us then?"

Cortana paused for a moment before responding. "I think Captain Picard should take a look at this. He may be in a better position to answer than I."


	12. Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

It was morning in the Imperial City. Sunlight, reflected and amplified by orbital mirrors to compensate for Coruscant's distance from its primary, made the towers and skyscrapers of the endless metropolis glow and glisten. Steady streams of aircars, transports, and patrol vehicles wound their away between and over monolithic structures of durasteel and chromium, casting tiny shadows over their gunmetal and ivory surfaces. Seen from above, it was a breathtakingly beautiful scene for nearly any humanoid. However, beauty is often lost on the Dark Lord of the Sith.

From an open balcony a thousand stories above Coruscant's long obscured surface, Darth Vader looked out upon the grand city, his personal throne world. Everything that was within the cyborg's view was fully within his power, if he wished for a tower that had stood for millennia to be demolished, or the inhabitants of an entire urban sector to be uprooted and executed, it would be done. He was the Emperor, and his power was absolute, like Palpatine's had been before him. As the Sith lord looked out over his domain however, his mind was not on conquest or power, it was instead focused inward.

Over only a few short days, Vader had achieved two goals that had been his foremost motivations for years, even decades; he had destroyed Palpatine, the vile entity that had twisted and dominated the dark lord since even before his coronation to his Sith rank, and he had delivered a crippling blow to the traitorous Rebel Alliance, and their ability to resist the order and peace the Empire would instill with Palpatine gone was now all but eliminated. The sympathizer worlds of Sullust and Mon Calamari had swiftly been dealt with, Sullust had been rendered uninhabitable by orbital bombardment, and every single Mon Calamari warship, transport, space dock, as well as several of their most heavily populated reef cities had been swiftly eliminated as well, insurance that the amphibious people would never again oppose the Empire.

And yet, even with all these great successes, Darth Vader was still tormented by uncertainty, emptiness, and even guilt. The immolation of the two alien home systems had given him no satisfaction or relief, not even the sense that he was promoting order in the galaxy. This absence was a new phenomenon, while he was still under Palpatine's domination, acts of destruction and oppression had induced feelings of control and righteousness in him, the feeling that he was acting naturally, through the true nature of the force. But now that the Emperor's influence had evaporated, much of the hatred, contempt, and bloodlust that had driven Vader had begun to dissolve as well, allowing older motivators and feelings to well up, bring with them more forgotten memories, like the ones he had seen on the rebel flagship. However, even with all these doubts and conflicts becoming more and more pronounced in his mind, something else was occupying the Dark Lord's focus.

Darth Vader abruptly turned away from the magnificent view that the high balcony afforded him and retreated into the secluded corridors of the Imperial Palace, his long black cape fluttering gently out from behind him. The armored being moved quickly down a broad hallway sheathed in rare Korriban obsidian, and slipped into a turbolift hidden in the wall. As soon as it's doors slid shut, the small lift pod plummeted straight down into the bowels of the immense structure, a controlled fall at the rate of a dozen floors a second. After only a few moments in the dimly-light mobile coffin, Vader felt the lift gently slow and come to a stop, immediately followed by the low hiss of doors sliding open again. Darth Vader stepped out into a new passage, this one made of dull, gray durasteel.

On either side of the doorway stood motionless a red-robed Imperial Guardsman, a force pike in his hand. The elite defenders of the late Emperor had immediately shifted their role to become Vader's elite guards after the fabricated "rebel bombing" that had killed the Emperor reached their ears. They submitted to him now without hesitation, and the change in regime did not seem to be interfering with their duties, but Darth Vader was still wary of them; individuals who had worked so closely with Palpatine for so long could not be entirely trusted.

Brushing past the faceless sentries, the sith lord walked down the hallway until he came to a new set of doors, this one also flanked by guardsmen. He paused before the plain metal double doors and stared at them, his progress suddenly stayed. There was something in his mind that was reluctant to let him see what was beyond those doors, telling him to forget the chamber and continue on past. Vader pondered the notion for a moment and then cast it off, but the act of hesitation still bothered him. The dark lord was not well known for succumbing to doubt, and especially not fear, and thus allowing such instincts to slow him now was unacceptable. Darth Vader hooked his thumbs reflectively onto his belt and moved forward, stepping into the chamber beyond as its door slid swiftly opened to receive him.

The room was dark, light only by a few glow panels set in the ceiling, their intensity levels at minimum. Low desks and terminals covered in medical equipment and sensory devices lined the walls, and mechanical armatures hung from the roof panels, folded and inactive. A lone 5-1B medical droid stood at the rear of the chamber, clad in polished black casing and operating a medical monitor, typing in commands in an eerily regular pattern. As Vader approached, it looked up silently and stepped away from the terminal, snapping into readiness mode. "Leave," the dark lord commanded, his low voice resonating throughout the room. The droid gave no sign of respect or acknowledgement, instead simply turning to door and marching out, its hydraulic legs whirring softly as it moved.

Once the artificial being had left and the doors had closed behind it, Vader turned back to where the droid had been standing, next to the large device that dominated the rear of the room. The machine, a tall, cylindrical tube of glass recessed in the wall, was a bacta tank; a medical device used the galaxy over to pull patients back from the brink of death. In the dim room, the two illumination panels that light up the clear pillar cast the healing fluid it contained in a red hue, an eerie counterpoint to the darkness that filled the room. Vader, however, did not notice the vibrant liquid, or the slowly flashing bio monitors that skirted the clear structure; he was instead focused on the figure the device held.

The naked body beyond the thick glass was damaged, covered in small cuts and patches of burned and dead skin, but the microorganisms that inhabited the medical soup that the body was suspended in were quickly sealing the wounds and healing the abrasions; none of the injuries were significantly dangerous to warrant the body's long emersion in the fluid. Instead, the serious damage was internal; it's only evident outward symptom was the abnormal yellow coloration of the being's skin. But for the moment, Darth Vader was blocking out all of the visible signs of damage, looking up into the limp figure's face. He looked upon the features of his only son.

Luke Skywalker, General and hero of the Rebel Alliance, destroyer of the Death Star, last of the Jedi Order stood alone, a tiny speck in the Star Destroyer _Indenture_'s cavernous landing bay. Luke was crouched by his captured fighter, lightsaber hilt clenched in his right hand and a holdout blaster in his left as he scanned the huge chamber for signs of opposition. There were none. Aside from his astromech Artoo Deetoo, who still sat in the X-wings droid slot, monitoring the situation unfolding around him nervously, the bay was totally vacant of activity, the emptiness only broken by evenly spaced shuttle craft that lined the hangar's walls.

"Are you picking up any life readings nearby Artoo?" Luke asked, edging along the side of his fighter. The astromech rotated its head section to face Luke and whistled plaintively. The young Jedi nodded, his eyes now fixed on one of the entry hatches to the bay, still sealed with a blast door. "It's strange that they evacuated the bay. I would have expected imperial troops to have stormed in here the instant we were brought down." Artoo twittered in agreement. Luke began to scan the walls and high ceiling for potential threats. "If they wanted to take us, we'd be dead or unconscious by now. Maybe there's something wrong with the ship. See if you can determine if the tractor beam projectors are still operational. Maybe we can still get out of here."

The little droid continued to scan the chamber and Luke waited in silence, the grip on his weapons loosening slightly. After a moment, Artoo buzzed again, his voice a warning. In response, Luke glanced directly above them, and saw what had caught Artoo attention. One of the bay's dedicated turbolaser turrets was pointed directly down at the X-Wing and its crew, twin firing tubes trained on Luke's head. For a moment, the rebel flinched and fell backwards away from the captured fighter, but the turret did not fire, instead simply altering its orientation to follow its target.

Luke regained his balance and cautiously walked back to his ship, eyes still fixed on the rotating gun emplacement. "Well, it looks like were not going to get out of here that easily," he sighed. Exasperated, he leaned against the fighter's cold hull and looked back over the room, his mind still racing to find a way out of the trap that had closed around him. His eyes fell on the huge opening in the middle of the chamber's floor, the entry point that docking ships had to pass through, a clear window into the stellar space beyond, only separated from the Star Destroyer's atmosphere by a bluish environmental shield. Through this barrier, Luke could make out huge shapes in the distance, Imperial cruisers in the foreground and the brownish orb of Sullust beyond.

As he watched, two of the distant ships moved closer to the planets, eventually disappearing from view against the massive back drop, but their objective was clear. After only a moment, flashes of green sprang to life from where the pair of destroyers were now positioned; standard imperial policy in action. Even from the tremendous distance, Luke could make out huge explosions of energy and vaporized rock as rain of turbolaser bolts plummeted downward from orbit, slicing easily through dozens of meters of arid ground and rock, immolating the first of Sullust's subterranean cities. It was a display of power and vengeance; no world could openly defy the Empire and hope to continue its existence for long.

Soon, rivulets of fire began to spider their way outwards from the bombardment point, lines along which the planet's crust itself was cracking, and Luke turned away, shivering. He could feel pain, the cries of the millions on the planet below that were dying every minute, incinerated by the continuing Imperial attack. Deep within him, a blazing point of anger began to grow, and Luke's mind began to blur, a thousand thoughts flashing into it. He saw the Rebel fleet in flames, he saw emerald bolts extinguishing city after city, he saw dark glove reaching out, offering great and terrible power, and destruction. From the point of anger within him, hatred began to push forward, and Luke felt his grip tighten on his saber hilt, fingers both real and mechanical pulsing with arcane energy.

But then the young man closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. The rage and anger receded rapidly, as if extinguished by a sudden wind. Luke Skywalker was a Jedi, the last of the Jedi, and he would control his emotions. Anger was the path to the dark side, Master Yoda had told him, and giving into it would lead him down a path his father had already tread, one that Luke had already refused to follow. The Empire would be brought to justice for what it had done, the Alliance still existed, Luke was sure of it. He would have felt his sister die if it had been completely destroyed. The image of Princess Leia, the calm compassionate sibling he had only just learned he had, flickered into his consciousness and Luke felt the last of his anger drain away. He would survive this day, there was still hope.

Then Luke felt a sudden draft, and his heart stopped for a moment. Vader was coming. Luke felt fear now; he had not expected the confrontation to come so soon, he was not ready. Then the Jedi steadied himself, remembering the teachings of his old masters. Luke knew he could find the good in Vader, he had felt even during their last duel, and he could stimulate it in Vader. He knew his father could be turned back to the light, despite what Master Obi-wan had said back on Dagobah. With the dark side's hold on Darth Vader broken, Luke knew that they could together defeat the Emperor and bring an end to the tyrannical rule of the Empire. He just had to hold onto hope, and believe in the force.

Artoo let out a series of warning moans, and Luke turned to one of the docking bay's main entryways, set in a wall only a few dozen meters from his X-Wing. "I can sense him too," he muttered, holstering his blaster and moving slowly forward. "Find some place to hide Artoo. This could get dangerous." Behind him, the astromech said buzzed worriedly. "Don't worry, I can handle this," Luke replied, and then under his breath muttered "I wont fail again." The little droid made a few more plaintive noises, but he quickly silenced himself, and a moment latter Luke heard the clatter of metal on metal as Artoo extracted himself from the X-Wing's socket and carefully guided himself onto the deck plate below the fighter's outstretched wing.

As the faint whir of the droid's motorized feet fainted away, the door before Luke slid open, and a lone figure stepped into the chamber. His grip on the lightsaber in his right hand tightening, Luke stared the figure straight in the eyes, still trying to calm himself. "Father," he said softly, more to himself than the dark lord now standing mere meters away. Nevertheless, Darth Vader heard the words. "So, you have accepted the truth." It was not a question, more like a statement of victory. Before replying, Luke looked over his father carefully, opening up all his Jedi abilities to try and scan him. Something felt different since their last meeting. Then, the dark lord had seemed almost absolutely dark, with only the slightest spark of humanity and individuality left, and he had exuded an aura of pain and malevolence that seemed somehow separate from the dark lord himself. Now, however, the aura was almost completely absent, and while the dark was still overwhelming in Vader, there was something strange about it, conflicted.

Luke was heartened by this change, and he pressed forward. "I have accepted the truth that you were once Anakin Skywalker, my father." Darth Vader shifted his weight imperceptibly. "That name means nothing to me now," he replied, intoning deeply, almost angrily. However, even as Vader spoke those words. Luke could sense a change in him, a slight increase in the energy he was dedicating towards the control of his emotions. "I sense conflict in you even now father. There is still good in you, let it out," Luke persisted, lowering his inactive saber into a less threatening position.

Vader paused before replying, considering his son's words. When he spoke again, the words his suit's vocabulator emitted powerful and definite, but Luke still was certain there was underlying doubt as well. "No, there is no conflict within me. The dark side is the only path to order, the light to which you cling is an illusion, one perpetuated by Obi-wan Kenobi and his deceptions." Vader took a few steps forward. "Join me Luke, and together we can quash the last vestiges of this pitiful and destructive rebellion and at last bring peace and order to the galaxy."

Luke shook his head sadly. He had never expected this to be easy, but he had hoped it would be. "I will never turn father, you must know that. Search your feelings, you know that what your doing, what you've become isn't right. This is the Emperor's doing, not your will. Cast off his domination, you can still save yourself from the dark side."

Vader stared at Luke for a long moment in silence. Something was wrong, Luke thought, his father almost seemed…surprised. "The Emperor is dead Luke, I have slain him." The young Jedi stood motionless, the words resounding through his mind. How could this be, if the Emperor was dead, then why was Vader still under the sway of the dark side. Could he have been wrong, was his father so far gone he would uphold Palpatine's dark reign even after his death? No, there was conflict in Vader, he was sure of it. He just needed more time, or a catalyst of some sort to cast of the dark mantle.

"The insane old fool needed to be destroyed, he wanted nothing save to grow in his own power until all life in this galaxy was bent to his will absolutely," Vader continued. "But I have eliminated that blemish upon the universe, and now the Empire is mine, and I can put it to its true purpose. Come Luke, join me, and together with the aid of the dark side the galaxy shall never again know conflict or turmoil, only happy obedience to us, and the new order of the Sith we shall create. Our Empire shall be one of peace, and justice."

As he listened, the sick feeling of frustration and growing rage blossomed within Luke. "Peace! Justice!" he blurted out, throwing his free arm back at the entry void in the floor, beyond which the Imperial fleet continued to pummel the defenseless Sullust. "You call that justice? If this kind of slaughter is what your new empire will be built upon, then it will be no better than Palpatine's!"

Vader looked out at the dying world, and for a moment Luke thought he saw a twitch in Vader's gloved hands, a sign of uncertainty. But the lapse was over as soon as it had begun, and Vader turned back to face Luke. "They are traitors Luke. I do not wish suffering or death upon my subjects, but if they attempt to undermine the stability of this civilization, to lend aid to the terrorist rebel scum, then they must be punished. A warning must be given so that other worlds do not foolishly cast their lot in with traitors, and seal the fate of their inhabitants."

Luke was both horrified and frightened now. Even with Palpatine destroyed, the dark side still lived on strong within his father's heart. The Jedi's hope was beginning to fade. A tear forming in his eye, Luke stepped even closer to his father. "This is wrong! You have to find the good that is still in you! I know the part of you that is still my father is strong enough to cast of the poison of the dark side. Please, you must turn father. While you still can."

At this, Vader began to stalk forward, and Luke involuntarily stumbled backwards. "You still do not understand. The path of the dark side is the only one to peace, my son." From Vader's clenched right fist a beam of crimson shot forth. "Join me Luke. I do not wish to destroy you."

Then it had come to an end. His options had run out, and Luke was now left with very few options. Vader now seemed irredeemable, consumed by the dark side and Palpatine's corruption. The will of the last of the Jedi began to falter. Perhaps there was no other way. If his father was so resolute in his support of the dark side, is it possible that he saw what Yoda and Obi-wan could not, or would not? This was Luke's test, a choice from which there was no escape; there were only two paths, and he had to take one, the light, or the dark.

Luke's gaze moved from Vader's nightmare mask to his own hands, where his lightsaber still lay clenched, and then back again. Then suddenly, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, he straightened, and an emerald blade appeared in his hand. He had made his choice. Vader nodded slowly, accepting this bitter failure, and then he lunged forward, red blade poised to strike.

A low beep resounded through the dark medical chamber. Startled by the sound, Darth Vader looked up from his silent reverie. "What is it?" he asked sharply, the voice directed at a small panel set in the ceiling above. "Lord Vader, the Star Destroyer Torrent has just entered the system. Captain Coloth is requesting clearance to send a shuttle to the place. He says you are expecting him," the calm, crisp voice of an Imperial officer responded over the comm. Vader cast his gaze back down to the bacta tank, in which Luke Skywalker still hung motionless. Behind his oppressive mask and life support gear, the dark lord let out a sorrowful sigh, and his right hand moved slowly to touch the glass barrier. "My lord?" the voice prompted again, this time somewhat nervous.

Vader's hand froze midway to the medical capsule, and he locked his son's expressionless face with one last long gaze. Then, as if forgetting him entirely, Darth Vader spun around and proceeded towards the exit. "Transmit the landing clearance. Inform the Captain that I await his arrival, and that of his passenger." The communications officer offered recognition of the order, but Vader had already left the chamber, leaving it just as cold and lifeless as it had been when he had entered.


	13. Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty One

"That's a Federation vessel," Jean-Luc Picard said, his voice hushed, almost disbelieving. The captain stood next to Imal Ryceed's command chair. Staring fixedly out the viewport at the object he had been summoned to see. Behind him, Commander Riker, Data, and Geordi La' Forge stood intermingled with the Republica's crew, each of them just as surprised and relieved as their captain.

Only a few dozen kilometers off the rebel ship's bow, the Federation ship drifted, motionless and silent. The cause of this inactivity was immediately apparent; the ship's hull was lacerated by huge gashes of melted hull plate and pocked with numerous gaping breaches. One of the craft's nacelles', a characteristic feature of nearly every Starfleet vessel, was completely absent, the support pylon that had once connected it to the ship now only a tattered amalgam of corroded metal. The top of the ship's saucer section was also shorn away revealing blackened compartments several decks below the outer hull.

"The damage to the ship is extensive, but I believe I can still identify it accurately," Data said, looking at a sensor display over the shoulder of a Mon Calamari crewman. "It is a Steamrunner-class, a long range combat vessel. I am unable to determine the ship's designation; there is too much damage to the forward hull." Picard looked away from the viewport. "Combat vessel?" he said, somewhat confused. The Federation wasn't in the habit of making dedicated combat vessels, and he wasn't aware of any in service. Geordi moved over to the data display Data was looking at and checked it himself, much to the chagrin of the officer still seated at it.

"Yes, I remember hearing about those during our last stopover at Deep Space Twelve. Apparently, it's a prototype anti-Borg ship." Geordi paused to stroke his chin, his optical visor shifting back to look out the main viewport. "I didn't think they had tested anything space worthy yet though."

Commander Riker was still looking at the wreck intently. "I wonder what could have caused that damage." The man blinked, clearing his head, and he suddenly he remembered the situation they were all still in. "Or more importantly, how it got here. Mr. Data, are you picking up any disturbances like the one we encountered at the wormhole in the vicinity of that ship?" At that, the android leaned down to the sensor station's control terminal, forcing the attending crewman not back away, now very irritated.

Before he could bring up the pertinent information however, Captain Ryceed rose from her seat and fixed a glare upon Picard. "This is all quite fascinating, but if you hadn't noticed, there are two Imperial Star Destroyers in this system, and they very well may locate us at any moment," she said haughtily. "It would appear that that ship is damaged far beyond repair, and I doubt that there are any survivors left on it. I apologizes for unconvincing you, but we have a schedule to keep. Helm, record these coordinates in the navicomputer and enter the predetermined jump vector into the drive system. Engage as soon as the hyperdrive is primed."

As Ryceed began to wade amongst her bridge crew, making sure her ship was ready to jump; Riker and Picard stood back, and exchanged worried glances. Both of them knew that abandoning the Federation ship could very well insure that the crew never saw home again. Ryceed would most likely not relent, she did have a crew of her own to protect after all, but the pair had to try. Resolute, William Riker put on his infamous roguish smile and approached the stern woman.

"Captain, surely you can delay our departure long enough to send a brief survey mission over to that ship, or at least take a more detailed sensor sweep of the immediate area." Ryceed turned slowly to face Riker and scanned his expectant face. "Please?" the Commander continued, his teeth visible in a handsome grin. The captain's eyes narrowed and her head moved imperceptibly, inching toward Riker's face. After a moment of looking him over, she withdrew her neck and pushed past him. "Sorry commander, I have my orders," Ryceed said, her voice showing signs of exasperation and exhaustion.

Riker shook his head as she passed, and glanced again at Picard, who was tugging on his uniform tunic, an indication of the state of his nerves. "Captain, there may still be survivors on that ship. Without a more detailed sensor scan or search by an away team, we could be leaving men and women to their deaths," he pleaded. At this, Ryceed whirled on the bald man and opened her mouth, ready to berate him for consistently interfering, but before she could form a syllable, a blue image flickered to life behind her.

"He has a point Captain," Cortana said, looking down on the group from the elevated holographic projector she was using. "With all of the distortion in this system from its star, the _Republica's_ sensors are having a difficult time penetrating far beyond the ship's outer hull, but I believe there are indications that life support is still functional in sections of its interior. I predict it would be feasible to dispatch a shuttle to the ship and have a boarding team investigate it in a sort enough time to not seriously endanger this vessel. And I must remind you Captain; your orders do dictate that you are to consider the recommendations of your passengers. The information gathered from that ship could be very valuable to the rebellion." She glanced at Picard. "Isn't that right captain?"

Picard smiled slightly in gratitude, and then nodded. "Yes, if my crew can gather enough information from that vessel's computer to locate the wormhole it emerged from, I believe that your High Council would be quite gratified." Ryceed cast glares at both Picard and the AI construct and looked like she was going to object, but instead she flopped onto the bridge command chair and stared out at the subject of their argument. "Very well," she sighed at last. "Picard, you may take a shuttle over to that ship and investigate. I'm giving you one hour starting now to do what you need to do over there and get back. When that time span has elapsed, this ship is leaving, whether you're back or not," she said, rubbing her eyes wearily. Picard thanked her quickly and walked quickly towards the bridge turbolift, towards which Data and Geordi were already heading.

Riker moved to follow his companions, but he paused long enough to shoot Cortana a thankful grin, which she replied to with a wink. "Oh, commander," she added as Riker began to move again. "I believe the Master Chief has been anxious to get out of his quarters. I think he would appreciate it if you asked him to go along."

"I think I can get the captain to agree to that," Riker replied, waving in recognition as he stepped into the open lift cavity where the others waited impatiently.

A low clang resounded through the battered Steamrunner's interior as the small rebel shuttle attached itself to the ship's hull. The Federation ship's small docking bay was caved in and completely obstructed, so the shuttle's pilot had opted to set his ship down in one of the huge gashes the covered the vessel. The tear that the ship now rested in ran for several dozen meters along the saucer section's port side, and stretched two decks into the craft's inner workings. The rebel ship powered down its drive engines, and engaged it's forward and after floodlights, bringing an expanse of charred metal and corroded walkways into view.

From the small, almost tubular shuttle's rear hull plate, an egress hatch hissed open, and a cloud of flash-frozen atmosphere spilled out into the desolate, airless chasm. Following the cloud, four figures, clad in gray survival suits and magnetized boots stepped onto the cold, lifeless hulk. They were followed by another being, encased in drab green armor, which jumped out from the shuttle's air lock just as the hatch began to seal itself. One of the gray-suited beings leaned forward slightly, listening to a transmission being picked up by his atmosphere suit's helmet. "You've got twenty seven minutes before I'm lifting off commander," the shuttle's pilot was saying over the comm. "You'd better do what you've got to do quickly."

William Riker acknowledged the message, and then turned to his small team, who were inspecting their surroundings with both interest and anxiety. Behind tinted face panels, Riker could see Lt. Commanders Data and Worf, as well as medical officer Ogawa waiting for orders. The captain had also wanted to come, but the shuttle they had been provided with was very compact, and in any event, Riker had been adamant in his insistence that the commanding officer should not accompany away teams into potentially dangerous situations, and the drifting, half destroyed ship certainly qualified. Standing behind the Federation officers, the Master Chief stood alert, his sealed armor providing him with oxygen and protection from the vacuum around them.

"Alright, you know what we need to do here," Riker said over a comm to his comrades. "Find an operational computer terminal to download recent sensor logs and command entries, and try to locate any survivors." Data withdrew a tricorder from his suit's belt, one of the few they had left, and began to scan their surroundings. "Energy readings would seem to indicate that the engineering section may still have computer power and atmospheric containment. I believe we should begin our search there," he said, adjusting a few knobs on the scanning device. Riker nodded and glanced at the chronometer set on his suit's wrist. "Let's get going."

Data guided the group towards a sealed doorway on the other side of the shuttle, partially illuminated by its floodlights. After picking their way over the blasted and ruptured deck of what had once been a series of Jeffries tubes, the team halted at the partially blackened door, which seemed to be still in working order. However, when Data approached the entry point, the sliding door remained fixed, apparently robbed of its sensing ability. Unperturbed, the android cleared a piece of sheet metal away from the side of the door in search of the manual control pad, but found instead only a mangled hunk of melted wiring. "It would appear that this door is too damaged to be opened by conventional means," Data commented. The android then moved towards the fused hatch, intent on prying it open, but found that the Master Chief was already standing there.

The soldier set his armored fingers to the thin crack that separated the door sections and pulled outward, his muscles flexing underneath his enclosed body glove. The metal warped and dented quickly around his fingers, but surprisingly, the door did not budge, evidently fused closed by what ever force had torn the hole that they were now standing in. After a moment, the Chief stepped back, shifted his weight slightly, and kicked. Firm as it might have been, the barrier was unable to absorb the energy of the cyborg's speeding foot, and the twin door sections clattered inwards, propelled onto the deck plate beyond. The titan stepped back from the now unobstructed and gestured to the others to enter. Riker nodded to the silent man, slightly mildly amused by the soldier's direct approach.

The team filed slowly into the dark corridor beyond, and Worf and Data each ignited palm lamps they had brought with them, illuminating the long, empty space. The ship's normally bright and sterile walls were now dark and foreboding, the computer interfaces and lighting strips that lined them cracked and unlit. "What could have done this?" Riker asked quietly to himself, keeping pace directly behind Data as he stared down a side hallway, blocked off by reams of power cable that dangled from its shattered ceiling.

Worf, who was walking behind the dower and silent Nurse Ogawa and just ahead of Master Chief, shifted his light source onto the commander's back. "From what I saw of the hull damage, I would guess that this ship was attacked by a vessel employing phasers of some sort, although without closer analysis, I cannot be sure of what type," he said. Riker pondered the information; most of the species in the Alpha and Beta quadrants used phasers, but he couldn't imagine any of them attacking a Federation vessel, especially with the brutality that the massive damage indicated. As of the Enterprise's departure, the Federation was on fairly good terms with all the major powers that surrounded it, and Riker couldn't imagine any fringe group taking on a Starfleet vessel of this size.

Suddenly, an all but forgotten memory, one unaccountably driven to the back of his mind over the last few weeks came to the surface; the _Columbus_. It was a Federation ship that had driven the Enterprise and he crew into the distant and hostile galaxy they were now in, and there seemed to be no explanation for their attack. The strange creature's that had boarded during the attack also seemed beyond explanation; perhaps the crew had been infected somehow by interstellar parasites that had mutated them, or perhaps they had encountered a strange new alien life form that had commandeered the ship, both occurrences were not without precedent. Still, neither felt right to Riker, and he suddenly felt cold, new, unsettling theories about the ship's attackers coalescing in his mind.

At the end of the hallway, the group again halted, this time facing a turbolift access hatch. Tentatively, Commander Data tapped the door's control interface, and to the team's mild surprise, the obstruction slid open, revealing a small lift cabin, lit dimly by a flickering ceiling panel. Riker inspected the compartment; it appeared to be stable enough, but it was quite small, only able to comfortably accommodate four people unencumbered by survival gear. However, time was too short to search for another operational lift, so Riker stepped aside and beckoned to the Master Chief, easily the largest of the group. "After you."

The lift ride was long and unsettling; the weight of four humanoids and a cyborg that weighed half a ton did little to ease the strain on the already damaged compartment, and the sounds of it creaking as it hurtled through the battered innards of the Steamrunner help convey the weakness to its passengers. Finally, the lift came to a stop and the five team members spilled out into the hallway, eager to be off the potential death trap.

They found themselves in a hallway adjacent to main engineering. This deep into the vessel, the damage was not as severe as it had been closer to the bridge and weapons systems, but the signs of battle were still quite evident. Signs of a very different kind of battle. As soon as she had exited the turbolift, Ogawa gasped audibly and nearly fell back into the lift, shocked by what she saw. Half a dozen bodies lay stretched out across the floor, each in various states of mutilation. The walls were covered in scrapes and phaser burns, and a large section of the hallway several meters to their right had been blown away, mangled wiring visible under ruptured deck plate.

Master Chief swiftly tore a blaster pistol from his belt and switched of its safety, using it to cover both ends of the hall. Worf, even though he lacked a weapon, also sprang to attention moving to put himself between the rest of the group and any possible attackers who might be lying in wait. Riker knelt beside one of the bodies that was lying near his feet, the corpse of a human female. She was almost unrecognizable, covered in vicious gashes and sickly burn marks, most of them focused around her face and neck. What little undamaged skin that remained on her had begun to take on a greenish, rotted complexion; apparently there was still oxygen in this part of the ship.

"Commander." Data's voice directed him to another corpse, lying across the walkway. After taking one last mournful look at the dead woman, Riker rose and turned to the object the Lt. Commander wanted him to look at. Roughly the size and shape of a large dog, the creature that lay crumpled before him was quite unlike anything he had ever seen, and yet was strangely familiar. It was covered in a slick, reddish hide that was thick and scabrous and drenched with a liquid of some sort, perhaps its own blood, or the blood of another. It had a long, angular head adorned with two large tusks and tiny black eyes, and its forelegs were each tipped by a single, knife-like claw more than a foot long. The cause of the creature's death was also apparent; it sported a gapping hole its chest, most likely cut by a hand phaser.

After examining the hideous creature briefly, Riker glanced at Data. "Can you identify this thing?" he asked over the comm. "I do not believe so commander," he replied. "There is no species in my memory banks that matches the physical proportions of the organism." Riker nodded nonplused and looked back at the creature, over which officer Ogawa was now standing, her tricorder moving back and forth over it. He noticed her gloved hands were shaking as she worked. "Are you alright?" Riker asked her, moving closer. Unsteadily, she closed the scanning device and turned to the commanding officer. He could see was quivering slightly behind the survival suit's mask.

"I'm alright sir," she gulped. "But…" She paused, trying to regain her composure. Riker was not surprised that she would be unnerved; Onigawa and others of her rank typically stayed on duty in the _Enterprise_'s medbay, and likely had never seen the more gruesome spectacles away teams sometimes encountered in person. Still, she seemed to be reacting to more than just the carnage around them. "The readings I'm picking up from this creature are very similar to the one's that were recorded from a boarder we captured before the Enterprise was evacuated. I can't be sure without more advanced equipment, but it looks like whatever those things on the Columbus were, they didn't die with it." Data gestured to the area down the hall that had been gutted by an explosion. "The type of damage is very similar to the kind left by those boarders who exploded in their effort to cripple the _Enterprise_."

The secret dread that had been growing in Riker since they encountered the Federation vessel came back anew, stronger and more persistent than before. The things that had destroyed his ship and ensured capture or death for most of her crew had spread, and he feared what damage they might have caused, how far they might have spread.

"Sir." Commander Worf said over the comm, catching Riker's attention. "There are eight casualties the immediate area, all Federation personnel, all dead." Grimly, the Klingon glanced down at the dog-sized creature. "I also located ten more of those things. They seemed to have entered the passageway through a hole cut through the ceiling several meters down. None of them appear to be alive either." Prompted by the tactical officer's words, Data activated his tricorder once again. "There are definitely life readings emanating from this deck, approximately thirty meters down that adjoining hallway. However, I am unable to determine the species or number of the organisms."

Riker checked his chronometer. "Alright, we have nineteen minutes until our ride leaves. Commander Data and I will locate an operational computer hub and collect as much information as possible." Data immediately activated a wall schematic of the ship and began to assess it. As he was doing so, Riker turned to the others. "Worf, I want you to take Onigawa and the Chief to investigate the life readings. Be careful, we don't know if any of these things are still alive. Contact me if you locate any survivors or run into trouble. We meet back here in twelve."

Blaster in hand, the Master Chief lead the group of there down the hallway indicated to them by Data, past walls scuffed with phaser marks and the occasional spatter of blood, with evenly spaced sealed doorways every few meters. Behind him, Onigawa tried to ignore the body she had just stepped over, that of an Andorian man who seemed to have had his right arm torn out of its socket. She glanced back at Worf, who had taken off his helmet and was holding it at his side while he sniffed the stale and pungent air, alert for possible threats. "So, you don't talk much, do you," Ogawa asked over the helmet comm, directing her words towards the soldier in front of her in an attempt to take her mind of the grim scene around them.

"I speak when I need to," was his response, and then a definite silence, as if he was telling her _and this is not one of those times_. The woman gulped and quietly looked back at the tricorder in her hand. "We should turn left at that intersection up there." The soldier nod almost imperceptibly and quickly covered the last few meters to the point where their hallway ran into another. His weapon rose to the ready, he glanced quickly down both sides of the passage as the other two made their way to his position. "Anything?" Worf asked, sliding up along side the Spartan. The Chief shook his head and slowly swung out into the hallway, his Bryar side arm flashing from side to side with elegant precision.

"There?" the Chief asked, gesturing at a large doorway which bore the label 'Main Engineering' next to it in block lettering. Beyond its double sliding doors, which lay slightly ajar, only blackness was visible. Onigawa rechecked her readings and shook her head, pointing instead to a doorway to the right of engineering and on the other side of the hall. "That should be one of the coolant intake conduit junctions for the warp core," Worf commented. "It would seem whatever's in there had to put up a fight to get in." Strewn around the closed doorway, nearly a dozen federation crewmen and alien beasts lay dead, sporting a variety of burns, cuts, and gashes; some of them looked like they had been chewed on after death. Worf and Master Chief took the scene in stride, but Ogawa had to hold onto the wall for a moment to recover from it.

Picking their way over the battlefield, the group at last came to the door, and not surprisingly, found it locked. Worf examined the barrier, which was scored dozens of claw marks, and then tried the control panel to no avail. Master Chief moved up along side him and began to prepare to open the door 'manually', but Worf stopped him. "No, that door is likely far stronger than the others we have encountered. Federation coolant junctions are designed with blast doors that can contain potential leaks and overloads. In any event, it would be unwise to make more noise than necessary, in case any of these creatures are still nearby." The Chief stared at him from behind his opaque visor. "Then what do you propose?"

Worf considered for a moment, and then care fully pried the control panel in front of him off the wall, revealing a mass of wiring and optic cable. Then the Klingon punched his hand into the opening, dug around for a moment, and then ripped a large section of the electronic mass out from the wall. After a second, the door retracted to the side with a soft hiss, and the Chief brought his weapon to bear on the room beyond.

The center of the room was dominated by large junction that connected four gray and blue tubes that emerged from the floor and ceiling and two of the room's walls. The conduits were quiet and unlit; the core was obviously offline. Aside from the junction, the chamber appeared to be empty, save for a control station set in a nearby wall, and a few supply crates that lined far side. Cautiously, the Chief entered the room with his blaster at the ready, and tried to maneuver around the central column so he could have a view of the entire chamber. Suddenly, out of the corner of his unnaturally acute eye, he spotted movement from behind the supply crates, and the glint of metal. Acting on instinct and decades of combat training, the soldier jumped to the side, seeking cover behind the inactive junction, and a fraction of a second later, the red beam of a phaser swept through the air, blackening the wall behind where the Chief had just been standing.

Not stopping to allow the attacker to get off another shot, the Spartan rolled out from behind the central column and fired two blaster bolts at the crates. One of the energy bolts impacted a tubular crate harmlessly, but the other hit the attacker's weapon head on, causing him to cry out and drop the smoking phaser. In a flash, the Chief was over the conduit between him and the crates, across the small room, and on top of the assailant, pinning him to the far wall. Worf was close behind, moving to aid the Chief while Ogawa stayed a safe distance away from the fray.

Arms and legs constricted under the Chief's immense weight, a wiry, gaunt woman, dressed in a tattered blue uniform struggled in vain to reach a second hand phaser lying just out of reach. Her eyes were wide open and bloodshot, staring at Master Chief's black face plate fixedly, her face quivering with fear. Worf rushed up along side the pair and tried to calm the woman down. "Its all right, we've come to rescue you. Those things can't get to you know." The survivor didn't not seem to hear Worf, or even notice he was there, her whole attention fixed on the Chief's blank helmet, on which a distorted version of her own haggard face was reflected. She mouthed wordlessly, her eyes windows to her inner pain and fear. The Chief shifted his weight, removing some of the pressure that crushed the woman in place, and moved his left hand slowly towards the back of his neck, where his helmet seal was located. Before he could reach it however, the woman let out one final wordless cry, and slummed down, her limbs now limp and lifeless.

"Ensign Ogawa," Worf called gruffly, setting down his helmet as he helped prop the unconscious survivor up against the wall. The medical officer approached slowly and nervously, but when she saw that the attacker was human, she broke into a run, pulling her tricorder free of its holster. Crouching beside the woman, she ran the scanner over her body worriedly and inspected some of the deeper cuts that she sported all over her body, especially on her left arm. "Her life signs are weak, and some of those cuts may be infected, but she should survive if we can get her back to the ship," the nurse said, then opened a large pocket set in the side of her atmospheric suite. "This survival gear should hold enough oxygen for us to get her through the breached section of the ship and to the shuttle." Out of the pocket came a large piece of folded white fabric, which Ogawa proceeded to unfurl into a large body suit, complete with a flexible translucent visor.

As the nurse worked to slip the woman into the suit, Worf searched the survivor's hiding place, and picked up the two phasers. The one the Master Chief had shot was useless, but the other was in working order, so Worf clipped it to his atmosphere suit, insurance against any surprises they might encounter on they're way back to the turbolift. Then the Lt. Commander placed back on his head and tapped into the comm unit. "Commander Riker, we have located a survivor in one of the chambers adjacent to main engineering." After a moment, Riker's voice crackled over the link. "Good, Data and I have located a computer terminal and our downloading as much information as we can from it. Seven minutes until we rendezvous back at the lift; if you don't locate anyone else soon, head back, we'll catch up."

"Confirmed," Worf responded, and switched off the comm link. "Ensign, are you picking up any other life readings in this area?" Ogawa, who was sealing the survivor's helmet to the suit, looked up and checked her tricorder. After a moment she frowned. "I'm not sure sir. There are strong signals emanating from Main Engineering, but…" she paused adjusting a few controls. "But what?" Master Chief prompted, moving closer to the doorway, blaster in hand. Suddenly, Ogawa looked up in horror. "I don't think there human."


	14. Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Two

Deep with in the interior of the battle scarred Mon Calamari cruiser _Republica_, Protoss High Templar Tassadar sat in deep meditation. Perched upon a supply crate nestled within one of the ship's large cargo bays, the weary being focused all his extensive energies on recovery, and introspection. The confrontation with the human known as Darth Vader, even though it had happened nearly a week previous, had left him drained both physically and mentally, and recuperation had been slow. The twisted entity possessed powers great and powerful, different than anything he had ever encountered before, and perhaps surpassing even his own psionic abilities. If he had not been able to muster the final blast of energy that had delayed the fight, Vader would have most likely broken through his defenses.

The existence of creatures that could wield this strange new power, the "Force" as he had heard the young Jacen Solo describe it, was troubling; it defied the principles and knowledge set down by the Order of the Templar over the millennia of the Protoss Empire's existence. Tassadar had always been the most opened-minded of the Protoss Conclave, learning the forbidden ways of the Dark Templar, and eventually even splitting with the Conclave and its Judicators when the tides of war with the hated Zerg demanded it. Even so, the idea that humans could attain such power made him uneasy, it reminded him of…her.

As his thoughts wandered the stars and his body regenerated, the Templar became aware of a familiar sensation, nearby and growing in intensity. It sickened him. It was like a quiet scraping in the back of his skull, a feeling he knew all too well. His mind switched focus, folding back in towards himself, searching for the source of the disturbance. Vaguely, he could see the blasted hull of a disk-like starship, the movement of beings inside it. Suddenly, a torrent of twisted thought and emotion hit him, and Tassadar's deep eyes shot open.

The Zerg were near, and they were hungry.

"How much longer Data?" Commander Riker asked, calling over his shoulder as he worked at a wall-mounted computer terminal, illuminated by the sputtering light fixture that hung above. Behind him, Data too worked at an interface, bypassing corrupted circuits and fragmented data in the _Steamrunner's_ main computer, each file and bit of information he recovered quickly copied by a data jack that sat plugged into the damaged network.

"The _Cornwall's_ computer database has been heavily corrupted, and there are several firewalls in place here that I have never encountered before," the android replied, using the ship's proper name, information he had gleaned from analysis of its navigational logs. "However, I believe that I can access most of the pertinent information available in the ship's scientific and navigational logs within the next three minutes." Riker grunted in acknowledgement and returned his attention to the search he had tasked himself with, accessing the most recent of the ship's active duty logs. He had to know what had happened to the ship, what had driven the _Cornwall_ through the wormhole and killed her crew.

The Commander entered a series of manual commands, the computer interface's voice response unit was offline, and attempted to gain access to her operational status and command logs over the week before her warp core had gone offline. Most of the information was inaccessible; Riker wasn't in a very good position to locate the data anyways, working from a secondary maintenance terminal was hampering his efforts, and he had never been as adept at computer operation as some of the others in his crew. However, after bypassing a few dead end network pathways, he finally brought up the main log chronicling the period he wanted to investigate. The stardates on most of the log entries were obviously showing up incorrectly, listing random dates years in the future, and some files were not tagged at all, but Riker was able to open up a file, fairly recent, and play it.

A small display panel set into the terminal flickered to life with a burst of static, the random blur quickly fading away replaced by the image of a Vulcan male, perhaps as old as Riker himself. "_Captain Koltopek of USS Cornwall recording, stardate 53_…" the image burst into static momentarily, and then recovered at diminished visual clarity. "…_reports that we are still unable to contact Starbase Twenty Two, or the Sigma Aberon colony. It is possible that they have been taken and if that is the case, than it is likely the subspace communications network in this region is already down. Nevertheless, I am attempting to contact Admiral Colti; if the second fleet is still operational, they may require the Cornwall and the Endurance to rendezvous to aid in a…"_ the log cut out in another burst of static, leaving Riker to ponder what he had just seen. The recording had not been clear, and as was Vulcan custom the Captain showed no sign of emotion, but even the small fragment he had heard suggested something big was happening in Federation space.

Riker glanced back at Data, who was still working diligently, then at his wrist chronometer, and then turned back to the log entries. He cycled down, trying each one in turn, finding most corrupted beyond comprehension. Finally he came to the last entry and accessed it, and to his surprise, the display panel lit up. Through the sheen of static that disrupted the picture, the commander could make out a figure illuminated by red emergency lights. Over the speaker a klaxon blared and crewmen shouted back and forth, nearly drowning out the log's subject. "_Acting Captain Travers_," the figure said over the encroaching static. "_We are fleeing the Ereldel system…most of the fleet gone, we still don't know what they did to…of the Endurance is unknown, Ops thinks they didn't make to warp."_

The figure paused; wiping his face free of some grime that Riker could not make out, but he guessed was blood. "_We'll make for the nebula in sector 88-43; we might lose them if we can get in there. If this recording ever makes its way back…that this crew has served with skill and loyalty far beyond what any commanding officer could hope for, and I am glad to have served…"_ The man again paused, looking off-screen this time. "_What? Where?" Seal off those decks, we have to give Engineering more time! Alert every non essential crewman, prepare to repel boarders."_

With that, the log blinked out, and the computer's entry memory ended, culminating the list of mostly useless logs with a note indicating that main power had gone offline. Riker sighed, the sensation of dread growing ever stronger within him. "Alright Data, take what you've got, we have to get off this ship. Our departure window is disappearing fast," the commander said as he sealed his atmosphere suit's helmet back in place. Before he could continue however, Riker heard a loud clunk from behind him, accompanied by a series of odd hisses. Startled, Riker whirled around and immediately recoiled in surprise; Data was kneeling upon the floor, pinning a mass of red and purple against the floor.

From his vantage point, Riker could see that the mass was in fact one of the creatures that his team had discovered littering the hallway around the turbolift, but this one was very much alive. Thrown on its back, the dog-sized beast thrashed widely, hissing loudly as its huge clawed forelegs lash about aimlessly, their upper sections constricted by Data's hands. His face a mask of concentration, the android slowly focused his weight on the creature, bending its forelegs down towards its slick carapace, and the creature began to hiss and screech more loudly. At last, with one final push, Data compressed the thing's legs into its chest, and with a sickening crunch, the being went limp.

Gapping slightly, Riker rushed forward to help the officer to his feet. "What happened?" he asked quickly as Data collected the data jack from the computer terminal he had been operating. "While you were completing the analysis of the terminal, I noticed that this creature was moving towards us from that corridor at a rapid rate." Data nodded to the hallway directly across from their work station, its distant end shadowed in the darkness of failed emergency lighting. "It lunged at you, so I took the most logical course of action, and intercepted it before it could reach you." Riker gulped and glanced down at the beast again, his danger senses now blaring. "Thanks Data. I think now would be a good time to leave."

The two officers set off at a run down the passageway from which they had come, a hall only a few dozen meters from the turbolift bank. As they ran, Riker tapped into his helmet's comm and tried to raise Worf, but before he had time to say anything, he found himself shoved into the wall as Data wheeled around and placed himself behind his commanding officer. From the direction they had just come, two more creatures were speeding forward, all four legs tearing at the floor as they propelled themselves towards their targets, jabbering with animalistic glee. One of them leaped forward towards Data, and he intercepted it in midair, his fist meeting its neck with a loud wet thud. However, the other being pushed forward as well and dove at the android even as its comrade fell to the floor motionless.

Its mandibles snapping ferociously, the beast knocked Data to the floor, and it proceeded to try and tear off the target's head with its huge claws. A few feet from the fray, Riker sat back helpless for a moment as Data attempted to tear off the attacker, and then his gaze fell on the tattered corpse of a Federation security man draped out across the floor, a phaser rifle still clutched in his hands. Stumbling forward, Riker pried the weapon from the dead man's grasp and rolled onto his back, desperately aiming towards Data and his attacker.

The creature was still on top of the android, scything its huge claws downwards at Data's head. The Lt. Commander evaded as best he could, twisting his neck from side to side as he tried to gain purchase on the beast's thrashing body. One of the claws cut too close, and a foot of sharpened bone sliced through Data's clear visor, scraping his left cheek, and then withdrawing, wrenching the ruined helmet away with it. The creature arched its back and raised its claws to strike again, but before it could act, a pulse of red energy tore into its side and set the thing spinning onto the floor. It writhed for a moment, hissing and squealing as it clawed at the floor, and then fell silent.

Riker rushed over Data, and for the second time helped him to his feet. "Are you alright?" The android put one hand to his cheek, which was now missing a large chunk of synthetic gray flesh, revealing a slivery layer studded with blinking lights beneath. "The damage is only superficial, it should not impede my operation to any great extent," Data responded coolly, inspecting his damaged helmet, which now sported a gapping hole in the visor. Such a loss might prove fatal for a human in this situation, but Data could survive exposure to hard vacuum, so the trip back to the shuttle would not be a problem. However, if the creature had struck only a few more inches to the left, Data was quite sure his cognitive and ambulatory functions would have been stalled, permanently. "I believe it is my turn to thank you."

Riker nodded quickly and scanned the hallway behind and in front of them warily, his gun held at the ready. "Call us even. Come on, let's get out of here."

The pair tore down the battle scarred passage, navigating their way around exposed wiring and heaps of decomposing bodies, increasingly aware of the growing din that was forming all around them; the sound of a thousand tiny feet scraping deck plates. Swinging around a bend in the path, Riker and Data at last arrived back at the turbolift bank. Mercifully, the hall was vacant of any living specimens of the strange alien things, but the commander didn't count on it staying that way. Before they continued on, Data inspected a wall panel and tapped in a few commands, triggering a large blast door to fall into place between them and passage they had just exited. It was a stroke of good fortune, but it wouldn't last for long; on their way though the upper decks, the team had spotted blast doors like this one torn into pieces, and Riker could now guess what had destroyed them.

The lift that had carried them before stood ready, its doors still open, but Riker noticed that the rest of the team was not there waiting for him, and they had defiantly not already gone ahead. As Data secured their escape route, Riker again tried to raise Worf over the helmet's comm unit. However his hails went unanswered, as did the ones directed at Ensign Ogawa and the Master Chief. Sighing in exasperation, Riker hefted his rifle and called to Data. "Commander Worf and his team aren't responding, were going to have to go after them." Data nodded, and after a moment of searching the floor, scooped up a blood stained hand phaser that lay discarded in the middle of the morbid battlefield. "Commander, I must remind you that we have only nine minutes and twenty one seconds before the shuttle departs, and the journey back to it from the upper levels will take at least three."

"Then we'll have to do this fast," Riker replied, glancing around for any new signs of opposition. "Let's go."

One pulse. And then two more. The creature slumped to the deck plate, its small head scored with three smoking fist-sized holes. Before it had even finished its death twitches though, it was engulfed by a wave of its brethren, clattering heedlessly over the body, all focused on what lay beyond. Several more beasts fell a mere meter beyond where the first fatality lay, but the rest pushed on forward, ignoring the losses and the red bolts hiss past their scabrous hides.

Master Chief ceased the hail of deadly fire for a moment to slam his only spare cartridge he had into his blaster pistol, his legs still propelling him away from the surging horde of alien creatures. Keeping pace alongside him, Lt. Commander Worf continued to lay down fire, the phaser he had requisitioned from the survivors' hiding place sending beast after beast to the floor with controlled beams of crimson energy. The Chief appreciated the help the Klingon was providing, and the two warriors had been able to keep their small group ahead of the wave of attacking creatures, but both were running low on ammunition, and the enemy were moving more quickly than they were, slowed as they were by the tight passages. The Chief had is own impediment; just ahead of the two men, Ensign Ogawa pushed forward as quickly as she could, forced to bear the load of the unconscious survivor limp in her arms over her arm. The officer was performing admirably under the circumstances, but she simply could not move fast enough, and even now she was slowing, adrenaline powered muscles quickly giving way under the load.

His pistol loaded, Master Chief snapped off a few more shots before shouting to Worf over the din that the hunting pack was making. "Give me your weapon and take the survivor. I can hold them back while you shift the weight." Worf glanced at the man's opaque face plate, his frown visible even behind his suit's visor. The Chief knew men and women like the Lt. Commander; they disliked letting off the guns when there was an enemy still alive in sight. He could respect the feeling, but he hoped that the officer could see that they had to move more or the alien horde would overwhelm them.

After a few more pulses from his weapon, Worf nodded and grunted over the comm, "Catch." With his free hand, the spartan plucked the phaser out of the air as it flew, and brought both weapons to bear on their pursuers as Worf accelerated to catch up with Ogawa. Master Chief pulsed the phaser's control stud, and nearly lost the weapon as it belched its deadly wave of energy; it was slightly better designed than the side arms the soldier had seen on the Enterprise, but the thing was still an ergonomic nightmare, he was surprised that security officers didn't kill themselves when they tried to use them. Adjusting his grip for the weapon's unusual sleek shape, the Chief slowed his running rate slightly as Worf shifted the survivor to more evenly distribute the weight between himself and Ogawa.

Three more beasts fell under a hail of well aimed pulses and beams, but more simply took there place, joining with the main force from side passages, holes in the ceiling, and the doors that lined the walls. As soon as the four of them had left the coolant chamber, they had been swarmed by the first of the beings, who had apparently come from the darkened Main Engineering. Master Chief guessed that the hisses and shrieks the creatures were making were calling more of their kin to join the hunt, a signal that living prey had been found. They're behavior was very similar to that of the accursed Flood, although the Spartan was thankful that at least these creatures went down far more easily than the parasitic bastards.

The Federation officers and their motionless charge turned down a side corridor and the Chief followed close behind, his weapons pulsing as they rapidly ran out of power. "We are almost to the lift," Worf called out from ahead. Mentally, the Chief counted his ammo; the pistol in his hand had only four shots left, and the phaser most likely would not last any longer, its power cell indicator flashing a dangerously low number in red. Behind him, the creatures kept on coming, slashing at the walls, the floor, and each other with clawed feet to get at their selected prey. The closest were a mere dozen meters from the Chief, and they probably would be far closer if the beings didn't periodically jam the hallway with the sheer weight of their numbers, stalling the horde until the ones farther back could leap over the stalled leaders. They weren't very smart, the Chief noted as he picked off one of them, but they made up for it with sheer numbers and persistence unshaken by mounting casualties.

Without warning, one of the shadowed doors between the Chief and the others exploded open, revealing a mass of flesh and living armor which burst forth into the hall, nearly knocking the spartan off his feet and causing his shields to flicker slightly. The Chief quickly regained his footing and tried to aim his guns at the new threat, but before he could, a blow like the impact of a small tank smashed against his chest, almost completely draining his shields and sending him flying a meter down the hall. Just barely to keep on his feet, the soldier, noting that the phaser had slipped from his grasp, opened up on the thing. As the bolts found they're marks at points along the thing's head and torso, the Chief caught a good look at it; a humanoid mass of reddish scales and sinew, one of the creatures that had attacked the _Enterprise_, to great effect. It was smaller than the creatures he had seen on the Federation flagship, but was horrific and menacing nonetheless. Suddenly, as the being reeled from the blaster wounds, Master Chief remembered just how the boarders had inflicted the most damage on the ship, and flung himself as far away as he could, leaping to cover the still fleeing Federation officers.

An instant later, a huge explosion rocked the area and chunks of superheated flesh and metal rammed into the Chief's already weakened shielding. Staggering, the soldier pushed forward, feeling a burning sensation spread over his back. The three in front of him had been mostly shielded from the blast, but a few fragments of shrapnel had apparently penetrated his shielding and the body glove under his armor plating. As he urged the somewhat dazed Worf and Ogawa forward, he fervently hoped that the medical officer had something with her that could seal the hole long enough for him to pass through the breached part of the ship.

The flood of alien creatures, halted momentarily by the other creature's detonation, were on the move again, swarming over hole that the blast had made, as eager as ever to set upon their fleeing prey. Emboldened even further by the lack of fire from the Chief's now empty blaster, they surged forth hungrily, rapidly overtaking the bedraggled rescue team. Even as the hallway they were in ended and the turbolifts were in sight, the foremost of the creatures leapt at the Spartan's back with mindless glee. Unfortunately for the creature, a thin ribbon of red energy swept over its body, and the thing found that half its head was missing.

Standing at the end of the passage, Riker and Data stood, they're weapons spitting out covering fire upon the rushing force. As Worf and the others came within arm's reach, the commander flipped a switch on his rifle, and the weapon's pulses intensified dramatically in speed, shredding the hunting animals as they came too close, and giving the one's behind them momentary pause. Taking advantage of the lull, Data and the Chief urged the others into the waiting compartment, Riker behind them, his weapon still spraying fire on the packed wall of hissing death.

As the commander backed into the packed lift, a bellow resounded down the hallway, and another of the humanoids came into view. This one was large than the first, its huge clawed arms smashing aside lesser creatures as it strode towards the turbolift, tiny, obscured eyes fixed on its inhabitants. "I think now would be a good time to leave," Worf said earnestly, his eyes fixed on the lumbering monstrosity. Data punched the inner door control, and the barrier slid shut just as the beast reached the lift bank. With a loud bang, the thing bashed its fists against the doors, leaving two huge dents in the metal, but before it could strike again, the lift shot upwards, leaving Engineering behind.

After he had caught his breath, Riker glanced over at Worf, who was propping the unconscious survivor against the wall, and grinned jokingly. "Why Mr. Worf, you actually sounded a little frightened back there." The Klingon glared at him. "No sir, I…" He was cut off as a tremendous explosion erupted from far below them, sending shockwaves though the lift tunnel and forcing the compartment's inhabitants into the walls roughly. "I was simply stating the course of action I found most reasonable considering the situation. Was there a flaw in my reasoning?" Riker glanced at the floor unnerved and then shook his head in silence.

The gardens that lay in the north western quadrant of the Imperial Palace were a truly anachronistic thing indeed, a patch of life and greenery amid a sea of cold machinery and durasteel. There was no doubt that the late Palpatine was quite twisted and insane behind his outer façade of cold control, and his whims were quite often very erratic, as evidenced by the patch of vibrant beauty that Darth Vader now walked through, deep in thought. In the fading light of Coruscant's distant sun, the odd colorations and forms of various plants from a dozen alien worlds melded into a living tapestry. Of course the elegant beauty of the place was completely lost on the dark lord, but somehow being surrounded by life helped his thoughts flow more clearly, something he was in dire need of after the chaotic events of the last few weeks.

As he walked down a trim cobblestone path, Vader reflected on the meeting that had occurred earlier in the day, deep within the fortress of steel that towered above him. He had debriefed Captain Meterin Coloth in person relating to his encounter with the wormhole, and the crew of this _USS Enterprise_. It was certainly not common procedure for the ruler of the Galactic Empire to personally conference with a lowly Star Destroyer captain, but Vader had taken a special interest in the unique situation, especially after encountering several of the beings who were supposedly extra-galactic in origin. Vader flexed his right hand slowly, recalling the strange reptilian creature that had beaten him off the bridge during the destruction of the rebellion at Sullust. Not destruction, he reminded himself, a few rebel ships had escaped the fray, but most of its leadership and its fleet had been wiped from the face of the galaxy, as had the rebel forces that remained in the Mon Calamari system. There were survivors, but they would soon be eliminated, and the galaxy, _his_ galaxy would at last be at peace.

According to the Captain's report, the rift that the _Enterprise_ had emerged from had collapsed not long after the capture of the Federation ship's crew. The thousand or so prisoners Coloth had taken were now enroot to a secret Ubiqtorate detention facility where they would be more thoroughly interrogated and held until a further use was determined for them. A notable exception from those incarcerated was the ship's command staff, who with the aid of a squad of rebel terrorists had escaped the ship before Vader's arrival. The dark lord had considered executing the captain for his failure and the loss of information that it would bring, but he had decided against it. With the rift now gone, any knowledge garnered from the prisoners would most likely have been useless, the loss had not been too great. It was a shame though, Vader reflected, if the portal had remained open, it might have meant a whole knew domain for the Empire to dominate, a place in need of Vader's brand of order, and the teachings of the Sith.

There had been another attendant at the briefing, and although she had not spoken at all throughout, she had garnered far more of Vader's interest. Aayla Secura was powerful in the force, more so than he had first suspected. She was also progressing down the true path, away from the weakness of the Old Jedi, far more quickly than he had anticipated. There was a deep darkness in her that could be set free, if she could harness it, Aayla Secura would make a formidable Lady of the Sith indeed. A worthy apprentice.

At that thought, a chill ran down his spin, and Vader paused, his mind shifting towards different matters almost as if by its own volition. He thought again of the medical chamber buried deep within the palace, his son floating between life and death in a bacta tank. An image of the man's face drifted into his thoughts, lifeless and tallow, and suddenly felt an emotion he was quite unaccustomed to well up from deep within his cold heart. Regret.

With a hiss and electrical clatter, two blades of energy met at the center, on blood red, the other bright green. As the pair strained and pushed against one another, their combined luminescence cast the figures wielding them in an eerie glow. Nightmare mask enhanced by the contrasting energies before him, Darth Vader stared down at his son, who looked back, his face set with concentration and sorrow. Luke Skywalker's grip tightened on his saber hilt and he pushed forward, hoping that the ebony titan would give ground. However, Vader stood there immovable, his right fist clenched around the red weapon, while the other hung at his side at the ready.

The two stood there like that for a long moment, staring into each other's eyes. Their gaze was a duel in itself, the clash of two irreconcilable beliefs, the strife between a father and son long at long and terrible odds. Neither would give ground, there was only defeat or victory, and were both determined to gain the latter. After what seemed like a century, Luke's arms finally began to buckle, and he was forced to break his saber free of Vader's, stepping back to gain better footing. Vader saw the move, broke his saber free at the same instant, and lunged in too strike again.

Hammer blow after hammer blow, the red blade came down again on Luke, and each time he deflected and parried, trying to push back at his father, but with each strike he fell back even further. As he desperately intercepted each slash and jab, the young Jedi's resolve began to flicker. He was too powerful; only seconds into the fight Luke was already giving ground. Maybe he hadn't been ready, perhaps Vader and the Dark Side that drove him were more powerful, greater than anything Luke could hope to achieve. Sweat began to bead on the man's forehead, and he fell back even further.

Then, in the back of his mind, he felt a comforting presence; he could feel the force flowing through him anew. A gentle hand brushed against him, and he could feel the fatigue in his limbs melt away, muscles and tendons alive with the warmth and strength of the force. Perhaps Master Obi-wan and Yoda were still with him. Reinvigorated and with new hope, Luke switched his tactics.

As Vader brought his saber down again, instead of falling back to meet it, the Jedi ducked and evade the blow, bringing his saber around to attack the sith's undefended side. Taking the new move in stride, Vader brought his blade down to block his flank, pulling it in closer too him. Luke now pressed forward lunging while the dark lord was off balance, sending his blade high at Vader's head. Again, he easily parried, but it cost his position, and Darth Vader was forced to step back. Luke continued the assault, his weapon humming as he swung the blade at his opponent again and again, high and low, forcing Bader to adjust to every attack. As if only now feeling the threat his son posed, Vader's movements became suddenly more focused and increased in speed, and Luke's advanced was slowed, but he still had the upper hand, for now.

The combatants continued the deadly dance, weapons thrumming with energy as they met again and again. The two moved out into the open center of the docking bay, trading advances and retreats, each testing their opponent for weaknesses and looking for missteps. As he parried a horizontal chop from his son, Vader spied a large supply crate lying against the wall a dozen meters away, and with the smallest nod of the head and a simple thought, the heavy object hurtled towards Luke. His senses alert for such attacks, Vader had used them during their previous combat on Bespin, the young Jedi anticipated the attack, and leapt into the air just as the crate slammed into the deck plate below him, screeching as it skidded along the floor.

Angling his flight with the force, Luke's jump propelled him several meters into the air, and with a well timed flip, he landed behind his father, saber ready to begin the attack anew. However, the sith had sensed the move from his son, and was already turned to face him, and so they're duel continued without pause.

"I can feel the power of the force surging within you Luke," Vader intoned as Luke deftly avoided one of his lunges. "Let it flow freely, feel the darkness that lies underneath and take hold of it. It will give you far greater power than you can possibly imagine, and clarity of mind."

"I know what the dark side has to offer, and I know what it shall do if I take that power," Luke responded, dodging to the side as Vader tried to force him up against the hull of a dormant shuttle. "The dark side destroys all who touch it, corrupts them until all they can feel is anger and hatred. It is not the path to clarity and peace, only chaos and death lie down that road." As he spoke, Luke's offensive picked up momentum, his own words giving him new faith.

"Your mind is still polluted by the teachings of that old fool. Think Luke, they would have you destroy your own father; topple an Empire that has at last brought order to a decaying galaxy. What kind of truth is that? What peace can this conflict bring? The so called light of the force is a lie, something pulled over your eyes by slaves to the old order, desperate to keep their own power even at the cost of the destruction of us all." Vader's blade sliced into Luke's, and once more they were locked, tying father and son together once more. "Think my son, what are you feelings telling you? This blind devotion to a failed order is wrong, it will destroy you. Embrace the darkness Luke; you know it is the only true path."

As he stood locked in combat in mortal combat there, Luke's resolve began to wane again. The little voice in the back of his head that had been there since he had learned of his true parentage emerged, whispering to him that perhaps Vader was right. Yoda and Obi-wan had sent him to destroy his father at all costs, that didn't seem to be enlightened, the path to peace and wisdom. They were so adamant that Anakin could not be turned; perhaps they were afraid of what Luke might see if he tried, perhaps his father really had discovered the true will of the force. Luke's saber dipped lower as he felt the surety that had strengthen him before fade, the demons of confusion and conflict taking there place.

Behind his bleak mask, Vader smiled. He too could feel the conflict in his son. Perhaps it was yet possible to turn him, Obi-wan's poison had to taken hold fully. There was no desire in Vader to destroy his son. Darth Vader prepared to speak again, to push Luke further down the dark path, but suddenly Luke burst into motion, wrenching his blade free of the lock and bring it up to attack again. Vader could feel the seeds of anger and doubt spreading their roots quickly through his mind. As Vader moved his own weapon to intercept the blow, he reflected that perhaps this was a better method than talk after anyways. Luke had to taste the power the dark side could offer before he would fully be ready to take his place by Vader's side.

"My Lord?"

The sith looked up to find himself still in the garden, now standing at the edge of the plot of greenery, staring out over a windy precipice that was the edge of the palace rampart down at the city far below. Vader was irritated with himself; once again he had allowed his mind to wander away, unchecked by his meditations. He should be focused on driving away the doubt and contemplation that had cropped up since the destruction of the Emperor, not encouraging it. This was no way for a lord of the Sith to behave, it was weak, almost Jedi-like.

From behind, he heard the nervous rustling of clothing and turned; Aayla Secura stood there, watching him uncomfortably from a respectful distance. "What is it?" he asked, his voice brooding. The Twi'lek woman straightened sharply and lowered her gaze. "You had informed me to meet you hear at sunset. I am eager to begin my training." Vader could feel that she was afraid of him. This was satisfactory, fear was key to control, if an underling did not fear and respect their master, they were susceptible to doubt, insubordination, and treachery. He also felt ambition from her, and latent power. These things were also gratifying; if molded properly, she would make a fine sith indeed. And then there was anger, he was glad to see it had not faded when they had destroy the Emperor, without anger and the need for vengeance, a sith would be weak, without purpose. Her anger was undirected with Palpatine now gone, Vader needed to give her an outlet to allow it to grow.

His cap buffeting in the mild wind, Vader began to march toward her, his hand moving to the saber at his side. If she was to become one with the dark, she would need to know how to fight as a sith. However, before he had gone a meter, he paused, his senses alerting him towards the palace. Something was amiss. Aayla looked on in confusion as her new master stared past her.

"There is an intruder in this place, nearby," Vader said, more to himself than to his apprentice. It was barely imperceptible to him, but he could detect a being nearby, full of hatred and malice. Directed at him. The being was not strong in the force, but he could feel it with the intruder none the less. He probed deeper, trying to locate the creature, but it was difficult; whatever it was, it was skilled at shielding its thoughts. However, as he tried to trace the being, he was able to make out one thought, too strong in its mind to hide.

_You will kill Darth Vader. _


	15. Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Three

Even before the small Rebel shuttle had set down in the _Republica's _main landing bay, the dim star field beyond the chamber's entry port surged into a blur of bright streaks and then was replaced by a deep swirling blackness; they were at last in the safety of hyperspace again. As the ship's hatch popped open and Riker stepped out, still in his survival suit, he could see that there were several people waiting for him there.

"Will," Captain Picard said, stepping forward. "Were you able to obtain any information from the computer core?" With a hiss of pressurized oxygen, Riker removed his helmet and nodded. "Yes sir. And we located a survivor." Out from the shuttle hatch, two more pressure-suited figures emerged, carrying between them an unconscious woman in a tattered Starfleet uniform. As they set her down on a nearby crate, the last two figures exited the ship, the Master Chief, and Ensign Ogawa, who tore off her helmet and rushed to the woman's side, her tricorder out.

Jacen Solo, who had been standing with Picard along with a few other Federation crewmen, furrowed his brow and moved up along side the battered survivor. Even without Ogawa's tricorder he could tell that she was starved, dehydrated, and emotionally damaged. Trying to ease her tortured mind through subtle Force suggestion, he waved a passing mechanic over. "Contact the Medical bay, this woman needs immediate medical attention." As the man ran off to transmit the message, the nurse sent Jacen an applicative nod and the two of them turned their attention back to the woman.

"Captain, I will require access to this ship's computer systems to repair and compile the information we downloaded into a useable form," Data said, handing Picard a pair of datapads. He glanced at them and nodded. "Yes, I'll see if I can arrange something with Captain Ryceed." Picard gave the electronic pads back to the android and turned to Riker, who had completely shed his atmosphere suit by now. "Did you discover what happened over there? Any clues to who or what did this?" Riker, Worf, and the Chief exchanged weary glances.

"Well sir, we had an encounter with the beings that disabled the ship," the Commander began. "Vicious, animal-like things; there were dozens of them in the Engineering section, probably throughout the rest of the ship as well. After we collected what we could of the navigational memory and flight logs and Worf and the others located their survivor, they rushed us en mass, I'm sure we'd all be dead if we hadn't been able to get into one of the functioning turbolifts. From what I could gather from the Captain's Log, the ship was attacked and boarded by this force, and then drifted through the wormhole after the crew had been wiped out."

Picard stroked his chin thoughtfully. "This is disturbing. Were you able to pin point the wormhole's position?" Riker shook his head. "There wasn't time. However, Data hopes that the information is somewhere among the memory files we were able to download."

"Captain, I believe that those things were the same creatures that invaded the _Enterprise_." This was from Master Chief, who had been standing silently up until that point, surreptitiously fingering a few patches of what looked like medical sealant along his lower back. Mildly surprised that he had spoken, Picard looked at the opaque faceplate intently. "Why do you say that?"

Riker frowned, reminded of his dark suspicions, and spoke up in the cyborg's stead. "As we were fleeing the boarders on the _Cornwall_, several humanoid beings identical to the ones that contributed to the _Enterprise's_ destruction pursued us. One of them detonated in the same way as was reported before, injuring Master Chief and nearly killing Worf and Ensign Ogawa."

Riker watched as the Captain processed the news, and the veiled concern growing on his face suggested he had reached the same conclusion he had. The commander leaned in a bit closer, trying to obscure is his voice slightly. "Jean-Luc, from what few Log entries I watched, I believe there is a strong possibility that a serious situation has developed in the Alpha Quadrant during our absence. On top of that, the dates on some of those entries might…" Riker's worried exposition was cut short as several new figures hurried towards them across the hangar deck.

Two medics, one human and the other a short, fan-eared Chandra-Fan, as well as a squat medical droid hurried past them and began to move the unconscious woman onto a hover stretcher. Walking jerkily behind them, a weary-looking Tassadar halted in front of Picard and the others. "I am gratified to see that you survived," the Templar intoned physically, usually commanding voice tinged with continued exhaustion. "Tell me what you saw; I must confirm my depleted senses."

Somewhat bewildered by the alien's behavior, Riker repeated what he had told Picard moments ago, adding a more detailed description of their attackers at Tassadar's request. When he had finished, the alien stood a moment in silence, and he faltered slightly, tipping over as though he was about to fall. Picard and Worf moved to steady him, but the Templar waved them off. "It is nothing, I am still weary." He sighed. "Well, I am certain now. Commander, those creatures on that vessel were the Zerg, though how they arrived there, I do not know."

The Starfleet officers looked at him quizzically. "The Zerg?" Picard asked. Tassadar stared at the man silently, as if lost in thought, and then shook his sizeable head. "No, not here, I am still too weak. We should continue this later, somewhere more private." Picard was eager to hear what had so visibly disturbed the Templar, but he was right, and besides, the middle of a crowded hangar deck was no place for a debriefing or conference.

"Alright, we should be able to use one of the secondary conference chambers on deck nine, when it is convenient for you," he said, gesturing diplomatically to Tassadar. The alien acknowledged the arrangement and moved slowly off, back to quiet meditation. Picard noticed that the Medics had already departed with the survivor, Jacen and Ogawa with them. "Mr. Data, Commander, lets see if we can gain access to the ship's computer," the Captain continued genially. "Mr. Worf, perhaps you and Master Chief should follow the others to sick bay. You seem a bit worse for wear."

The group broke apart, setting off for different hatches and turbolifts as the mechanics and pilots who had watched the unusual gathering returned to their duties. As they dispersed, no paid any notice to a small, whitish box that perched in an alcove of one of the magnetic field regulators that protruded from the floor around the ship entry port. No one paid any notice as the tiny light on its otherwise featureless face stopped blinking, now instead glowing a solid, unchanging blue.

Rays of solar light, dimmed by photogenic cells impregnated into the transparisteel through which they passed illuminated a man's stern and clean-shave face with a gentle glow. Slowly, a smile crept across the man's lips, his eyes glinting as he stared aimlessly into the blackness of empty space. "Have they jumped?"

Behind him, a younger, dark-skinned man snapped to attention. "Yes sir, only a few moments ago." The man at the viewport nodded slowly. "Are we receiving the tracking signal?" The officer replied in the affirmative, and the man's smile broadened, a feral grin. "Very good. Lieutenant, instruct the _Broad Sword_ to investigate the area where the Rebel vessel held position before entering hyperspace. Have her captain hold position there until I relay further orders." The other man responded with a quick, respectful bow and proceeded to a nearby communications station.

The older man remained at the viewport, absorbing the soft stellar glow, elation swelling within him, anticipation for what would come, what his actions this day would earn him. With a lazy hand gesture, another junior officer approached and bowed briefly. "Order the helm to move us out of the star's distortion field. Then relay a message to sector control in the Karasee system. Tell them," he paused, relishing the words. "The hunt is over."

_You can't do this. He's too powerful, you're too weak. It's not too late to get away. You must flee!_

Trembling, the woman tried to suppress the seditious thoughts, and realigned her eye with the weapon's sight. Magnified a dozen times and sharpened to crystal clarity, a single figure dominated the circular lens in front of the woman's eye. Gulping to clear a knot that had formed in her throat, she cycled through the streamlined sight's view modes, making certain that conditions were optimal, that the shot was clear. Infrared, thermal, magnetic, electronic, all registered the path as being clear; there was no doubt, it was the ideal shot. Normally, the woman would have squeezed the firing stud on the long, smooth sniper rifle she had propped up in front of her without hesitation, but this time, her mind was in conflict, killer instincts clouded.

Despite the cooling breeze that brushed her long mane of luxurious red hair, beads of sweat were still forming on her bare forehead. An empty feeling in her gut reminded the woman of what she had felt but a week before, a horrible, wrenching explosion, setting fire to her being. For a sort while, she had been adrift in a sea of agony, but the feeling she had been left with when the pain had passed was far worse. There was emptiness, a lack of control, of direction, of confidence. The only thing that had kept her going, the sole anchor to her past life was a simple command, burned into her consciousness.

_You will kill Darth Vader. _

Trying to calm herself with slow, rhythmic breathing, she closed her eyes, opened them again, and then focused her mind on the objective. Voices of reason, of self-preservation still intruded on her focus, but she ignored them, the order, the last order of a great man, must be carried out. The target was moving now, the opportunity would disappear in a few moments, it was now or never. Using what concentration she could still muster to steady her trigger finger, she fired.

An angled projectile hurtled from the rifle's bore and crossed the long distance from the attacker to her target in only a fraction of a second. Not even the most advanced combat droid in existence could dodge or even detect the bullet before it impacted, and certainly no mere organic. However, this target was not bound by the limitations imposed by simple technology and biology; the Force was with him. Even before the deadly round had traveled a meter, the figure had sensed the danger it posed, and with nearly incomprehensible speed, turned to face it and raised a gloved hand.

The projectile surged through the dusk air unopposed until it was inches from the kill, but then it halted. The tiny sensor buried in the projectile's nose sensed the loss of momentum, waited for the estimated milliseconds necessary for armor penetration, and then triggered its own tiny detonator. However, during the minute period of time that it took for this procedure to occur, the bullet had been propelled by an invisible force a dozen meters away, out into the abyss above the vast Coruscant cityscape. Several grams of baridium ignited, and for a brief moment, a vibrant, orb-like blossom of explosive energy hung in the dim sky, and then faded.

The woman cursed violently, and rather than attempt another futile shot, quickly disassembled the rifle, shoved it into a large pocket on the back of her slender black bodysuit. Dropping silently down from her now compromised vantage point onto an empty walkway below, she set off quickly, alert for guards and security sensors, a cold chill settling in her gut. The single order still rang in her mind, ordering her to go back, attack the figure, the Dark Lord of the Sith, again. To terminate his miserable existence. No, she thought furiously, now is not the time. There are other ways, other times. Right now, escape is paramount; nothing else can be accomplished today.

It was a foolish plan, the woman reflected as she pried open a service hatch set to one side of the walkway and slipped through it, into one of the main power regulation nexuses that dotted the interior of the outer ramparts of the Imperial Palace. Perhaps before the horrible feeling, the sensation of Emperor Palpatine's death, when she could still wield the Force and help guide the projectiles from that weapon, perhaps then, the desperate plan might have worked, but now it was an ineffectual gesture. She would have to think of another method of attack, something Vader could not foresee, but she would find a way. That traitorous abomination would be destroyed. He had robbed her of her life, of her livelihood, her purpose in life, the only man she had ever really known, and most of all; he had robbed her of the Force.

Mara Jade, assassin and Emperor's Hand, slipped over a series of pulsing power conduits slipped down a crawlway hidden by a false monitor panel, guided by knowledge of secret routes earned from being in the Emperor's highest confidence. Pausing to gather her bearings, she climbed down a narrow, wall-mounted ladder and located a hatch on the lower floor, one that would lead into the inhabited portions of the grand palace, frequented by guards, stormtroopers, and techs. From there, it was only a short run to a secondary landing bay, from which she could commandeer an escape vessel and fade away into the crowded sky lanes of the city beyond.

Drawing a blaster pistol from a hip holster, Mara placed an ear to the hatch, and sure it was clear, slipped out into the hall beyond. The passage was vacant, brightly lit, and constructed in the same spartan, metallic style as the inner workings of imperial warships. Mara knew she would have to navigate the place quickly to avoid detection, and raced off, her padded boots making little sound on the bare durasteel floor.

From around a bend in the hall, she could hear the rhythmic footsteps of Imperial stormtroopers, no doubt now on alert. Thinking quickly, the assassin tried one doorway, found it sealed, and then tried the next. It slid open easily, and Mara ducked inside just as the glistening white helmet of an Imperial soldier came into view. Inside the chamber, a small monitoring station, a lone brown-clad officer was rising from his chair in alarm, hand fumbling for his sidearm and mouth open, beginning a call for help. Mara surged into motion, crossing the room in the blink of an eye and impacting the man's stomach with an elbow. He staggered and gasp, his cry cut short, but before he could back away or pull his pistol loose, Mara delivered several more blows, knocking away the weapon and throwing the officer off balance in a single, fluid motion. With a final hammer blow to the jaw, she knocked the man to the floor, motionless. The struggle took only six seconds.

The rest of the journey to the hangar was uneventful; Mara ran into no other guards and was able to easily disable the security cams in her path with codes she had been given while in service of the late Emperor. She was uneasy; the escape was going too well, it had to be a trap. Perhaps she should double back, exit the palace through the waste removal systems far below. No, she reassured herself, it was too late for that, and besides, no one knew about the shortcut though the power nexus, she had discovered it for herself. Even Vader was not powerful enough to track her accurately from this distance, she thought, feeling a measure of confidence return.

Mara Jade soon reached an intersection, one of the paths leading to the landing bay and escape. However, she took the other; Mara knew that the palace would be in lockdown right now, and all the hangar doors would be sealed. She found the flight control room door nearby unlocked, and made short work of the techs guarding, laying them out cold before they even noticed her presence. Pulling one of the unconscious men off a control panel that sat beneath a viewport that overlooked the bay, she entered a few hurried commands into the security control computer, and found that it was indeed in lock down.

Racking her memory, Mara tried one bypass code, and then another, the hairs on the back of her neck raising in warning as the seconds ticked by. At last, one of the codes worked, and the noise of machinery rumbled from the chamber below as the hangar blast door rose, revealing the towers of the Imperial City below, glinting with the last rays of a setting sun. Smiling slightly, Mara backed away from the control room viewport and pulsed three blaster bolts into with her pistol. The thin transparisteel shattered easily, and the lithe woman sprang onto a thin ledge that ran under the shattered pane. Holstering her weapon, Mara glanced around the bay below; empty save for a pair of small, parked cargo skiffs. Satisfied it was clear, she grabbed a tubular power casing that ran the height of the wall and slid nimbly down, falling the last meter and hitting the ground running.

Crossing the hangar deck in mere seconds, she halted at the nearest skiff and began to furiously enter a code into its locking interface. After a few tries, there was a satisfying click from within the small cockpit section, and the entry hatch swung open. Now smiling broadly, Mara stooped and moved to enter the cockpit…then froze. Her danger sense, with the force or without, had just begun to blare madly, and she pivoted were she crouched, blaster pistol in hand again.

Striding through the entryway she had bypassed was none other than the Dark Lord of the Sith himself, her quarry. She faltered in shock and horror for a moment; how could she have been tracked so quickly? How could he have cornered her so easily? The moment of shock passed though, and her hunter's instincts took over. Her pistol lit up three times in quick succession, and the trio of crimson bolts raced at the menacing black giant, how made no attempt to evade them. Instead, he simply held out his right hand, and the bolts splashed harmlessly off it, deadly force transmuted into harmless puffs of heat. Mara took the failure in stride, squeezing off a few more shots as she jumped up and flipped over the blunt nose of the skiff, seeking some cover there.

Darth Vader easily intercepted the new blasts with his palms and moved forward, gesturing at a fuel line that hung above the parked skiff. Immediately, the cable sprang to life, ripping from the wall and plummeting down onto the far side of the vehicle, a jet of foul-smelling liquid coming with it. However, Mara was no longer there; instead she was edging swiftly along the far wall, diving behind empty cargo boxes as she aimed for the next skiff. Vader continued forward, not even bothering to increase the rate of his stride.

From one of the pockets of her bodysuit, Mara pulled three large orbs, priming two and tossing them at the Sith lord with unerring accuracy. With a bat of the dark cyborg's hand, the two devices altered their paths, rocketing into the ceiling and detonating there with tremendous force, enough to cause the floor plating to rumble and leave a ten meter wide maw in the metal far above. "You underestimate me Mara Jade," Vader said calmly.

Mara however was not listening; in fact, she seemed to have disappeared entirely, replaced by a cloud of white smoke that was belching from the third orb, which was spinning idly on the floor. With a wave of his hand the cloud dispersed, but the woman was still nowhere to be seen. Now Vader reached out with his feelings, could sense her still very nearby, afraid, desperate to get away. Pacing over to where the gas grenade had been dropped, Vader stared at the closest wall, where he noted a shadow flight from view inside a maintenance crawl space, its hatch cast roughly aside on the deck plate. "I tire of this," Vader said to himself in a weary monotone, and with a flick of a gauntleted wrist, the struggling Mara Jade found herself being dragged back out into the open, left leg caught in an invisible grip.

Desperately, she tore a small vibroblade free from a sleeve inside one boot and threw it at his masked visage; he smacked the weapon out of the air with ease. His right hand formed a loose fist, and Mara was dragged into the air, floating by her neck a meter off the deck plate. She gasped and pried at her throat as it began to close off, her legs flailing madly in the air. Vader walked back to the center of the bay, floating her along with him in this state, saying nothing as her oxygen-deprived brain began to fade. After a few more agonizing seconds, the vise around her neck disappeared, and she tumbled unceremoniously to the hard floor.

Gasping for air, Mara propped herself up, vision clearing enough to see that there were others there now, several armed stormtroopers and Imperial Guardsmen, as well as a female Twi'lek who stared at her curiously. "I expected more from one of Palpatine's hands," Vader rumbled from behind her. "The conniving fool sent you to kill me? A futile attempt, from a delusional and insane old man." Mara glared at the Dark Lord with hatred, trying to move against him, press the attack, but she found herself pinned to the floor, helpless. "You will pay for what you've done Vader," she spat. "There are others, still loyal to our Emperor and what he believed in. They will reveal you, show the Empire what you truly are, a usurper to a throne you do not deserve, and eventually, they will find a way to kill you."

Darth Vader glared down at her. "Foolish girl, it does not matter what the subjects of the Empire know, it does not matter if discover that I removed power from that insane creature's grip personally. All that matters is that this Empire is whole again, the cancer clouding its true purpose removed, replaced by a strong leader, one who the people of this galaxy will obey absolutely. I have crushed the Rebellion, and soon this domain will know order once more, the order of the Sith resurrected, untainted by Palpatine's greed and paranoia. No Jade, this new order cannot be stopped, not by you, or any who would cling to the ways of an emperor now mercifully dead."

He paused again, stooping down towards her. A single powerful hand grabbed her already bruised neck and wrenched her upright, so that she now stared straight into Vader's masked eyes. "You will help me seek out those who would attempt to undo what I have done, give me the names of Palpatine's most loyal confidantes. And then you will divulge all of the secrets that the old man imparted to you during your service. He knew of abilities, places, things that could prove to be of value to my new order, and I sense that he may have implanted some of that knowledge in you, whether you know of it or not." Vader pulled her even closer, and Mara could clearly hear his deep, raspy breathing, not breaking rhythm even as he spoke. "And then, if you do all of what I have asked, then perhaps you shall live. I sense potential in you, talents Palpatine did not taint. Consider this my words Mara Jade, for they are your only path to absolution. Do not follow them, and you will die."

With that, Darth Vader released her and gestured to one of the nearby stormtroopers. "Disarm her and move her to a holding cell." The trooper and his subordinates moved to comply, and the Twi'lek, her eyes still fixed curiously on Mara, walked over to the Dark Lord.

Mara Jade watched helplessly as the white armored soldiers approached, blasters all aimed squarely at her head. As one trooper undid a pair of shackles from his belt, Mara watched Vader as the Twi'lek woman plied him with quiet inquiries. Pure hatred and fury curled her upper lip, but within despair was growing quickly, she had failed her master, and now she was the prisoner of the one she had tried to destroy. She would not let that monstrosity rip any of the Emperor's secrets from her mind, would rather die. It was with that thought that she remembered one last weapon she had brought along, an implement of last resort. As the stormtrooper began to shackle one wrist, the other contorted, triggering a small, flimsy panel to slide into her palm. Adorned by a single red button, when triggered, the device would set off the permacrete detonators she had stowed in the soles of her boots. Their combined force would vaporize every solid object within twelve meters. She had this one last trail to go through, one last chance to fulfill her goal.

As the trooper moved for her other hand, Mara closed her eyes, took one last draft of cool city air, and moved her middle finger over the small, red button. It was over.

Mara Jade's corpse fell to the floor in a heap of cauterized flesh. A slash that had swept from here abdomen, across her chest and severed her trigger arm had been the assassin's undoing, and the deliverer of this final failure stood over her, breathing heavily. The stormtroopers and guardsmen stood back in disbelief and shock as Aayla Secura stared down at her kill in mild shock, blue lightsaber still glowing in her hands. Darth Vader stepped up alongside her and glared down on what could have been an invaluable resource of information. "Explain," he ordered the Twi'lek coldly. Aayla deactivated her saber and looked at her master, eyes betraying a mix of exhilaration and fear. "I…I apologize my lord, but I sensed that she was a danger to us. Look at her palm, a detonator."

Vader did not spare a glance at the severed limb, instead focusing on his apprentice. Neither spoke for a long, foreboding moment. "You did well," Vader said at last, his low voice revealing no emotion. Aayla looked up, surprised. She had expected a rage, punishment for depriving Lord Vader of his prize. "However, you must learn that a killing blow is not always necessary, even if the Dark Side tells you it is right to take that life. To disarm and inspire fear and obedience in a foe can far more useful. Rage, fury, passion, instinct. All these are strong sources of power, but without control and focus, they can destroy what you hope to achieve along with an enemy. This is your first lesson. Remember it well."

Darth Vader stalked off without another word, pondering his own message as Aayla remained behind, contemplating her first cold-blooded kill. Lord Vader was right, she could have simply cut off the woman's arm to the same effect, and still have left the information Jade carried intact, but something had compelled her to take that life, and she had done so. And now, as she looked down at the once living being, a warmth began to ripple through her, permeating her very being with a strange new emotion, completely alien. The lust for blood and power. The very thing that a lifetime of Jedi training had screamed against, fought to suppress, was taking root within her, feeding the fire of the Dark Side that now burned within her heart. And it was glorious.


	16. Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Four

The Arbiter moved steadily through the brightly lit, even hallways that dominated the Rebel starship's center section, glad to be stretching his powerful leg muscles. For the last week, he had cloistered himself in the quarters he had been given, a small chamber that had belonged to an Umbaran lieutenant killed at Sullust. He had not hidden himself away out of disgust for the humans that dominated the star cruiser as others of his species might do, but rather to try and come to terms with what had occurred since his awakening in the sick bay of the Enterprise not so long ago.

He had had to come to terms with many things since his arrival; the Covenant teachings and propaganda about humans that turned out to be far from the truth, the strong possibility that the holy Prophets were intentionally lying to their subjects and all that that entailed, and the underlying frustration at his sudden inability to try and save his own galaxy and way of life, the possibility that if he ever was able to return home, he might find it destroyed, destroyed by the foolishness of those he once revered. This last issue was the most dire and troubling, but the chaos that followed his arrival had not allowed much time for reflection on what was occurring around the Forerunner artifact from which he had been torn. Since the _Republica_ had fled the destruction of its fleet, the Arbiter had nothing to do but reflect.

The idea of joining the others as they too waited for the long, relatively quiet trip to be over has occurred to him, but he wasn't quite comfortable with the idea, not yet. The humans and humanoids he had fought alongside over the last few weeks had earned his admiration and even respect, and his inability to save the woman Crusher had disturbed him more than he had expected it would, but still, the idea of trying to socialize with them, know them better, went against a lifetime of zealous hatred and prejudice, parts of himself that would take a long time to fully repress.

However, this occasion was different. He had been relayed a message that the Enterprise survivors and even some Rebel personnel were going to discuss what had been found on a derelict starship before the last jump into hyperspace, and what it meant for their attempts to locate a new wormhole, a discussion he had been invited to. The message had not been specific and the Arbiter was left to wonder what type of vessel it was, and what relevant information it could possibly contain.

As he made his way to the small conference chamber that had been approved for the meeting, the Arbiter was relieved to see that none of the Alliance soldiers and crewers who moved through the passages around spared more than a passing glance in his direction. He did not wish to participate in a conversation with a curious passerby, although he did take interest in what seemed to be a general shift in attitude among them, a change that was almost palpable in the air. Before the Imperial attack, the Rebels he saw had been enthusiastic, eager to strike a blow to their enemy that it might never recover from. Now though, every pilot and marine had a dower expression and the air of a defeated soul. Even their oddly-shaped automatons seemed subdued. Of course, he could be misinterpreting their behavior, the Elite reflected, he was not yet very good at relating with humans, or even accurately telling them apart all the time, but he had been around soldiers all his life, and he knew the shame and hopelessness that defeat could bring. He had experienced it personally more than once, and he still bore the scars under his reflective armor.

The Arbiter paused at a turbolift bank, and checked his bearings mentally. The design of the ship, while more familiar than the Federation vessel he had been on briefly, was still quite dissimilar from the Covenant warship layout he was used to and he had not become acclimated to it yet. After a few moments of trying to check the deck and section indicators that were mounted next to the lift control panel, conveniently not in a script he could read, the Arbiter reluctantly began searching the hallway for someone who might direct him to the appropriate part of the ship.

One crewman, a young-looking male human caught his eye as he approached the same bank of turbolifts the Arbiter was standing near. Making sure that the Federation Universal Translator tucked into a side compartment of his armor was functioning, the Arbiter moved into his path. "Where is the deck nine, section four conference chamber?" he asked the startled human bluntly. The man stared up at the warrior and gulped; it occurred to the Elite that this human looked familiar. "Um, on deck nine," the man responded, grinning uneasily. The Arbiter stared at him, unblinking and stonily serious.

The man's smile quickly faded, and his voice began to waver slightly. "Ah, well yes, you wouldn't know where that is after all. Sorry." Swiftly, he moved around the Elite's imposing figure and opened the turbolift door. "Here, I'll guide you there. I'm heading in that direction anyways." Stooping, the Arbiter entered the small platform with the human, who then typed a few commands into the inner interface.

As the mobile compartment disengaged from its magnetic holding claps and shot through the Republica's inner workings, the two occupants were silent. Staring down at the human next to him out of the corner of his eye, the Arbiter suddenly remembered who the man was; Flitch, one of the Rebels who had been part of Major Truul's infiltration team on the Imperial Star Destroyer _Torrent_. He seemed to have changed since the rout at Sullust, at least to the Arbiter's eyes. Outwardly, he carried the small resigned, defeated air that pervaded the ship's crew, but there was something more to this one, more deeply ingrained emotion. Tainted as they were by eventual failure and disgrace, his years as a Covenant fleetlord had given him experience dealing with lesser officers, and he had paid more attention to those under his command than most in such a lofty position. To know the motivations and motives of one's soldiers is to know how to make them follow orders without question.

The turbolift at last came to a stop and Flitch directed the Arbiter out of the compartment and down an empty hallway. "Pretty empty down here," the soldier commented. "Not really surprising, not many people would be using any of the briefing or conference rooms at a time like this. Nothing to plan until we rendezvous with command again, if command even makes it."

Empty small talk, the Arbiter noted silently, he is talking to disguise nervousness. But what was he nervous about? It could not be the Elite's imposing presence; they had met before and fought alongside one another before. It could be general agitation caused by the uncertain future of the Rebellion; it was only natural that Flitch would be as uneasy as the rest of the crew. Still, something felt different about that man.

"Alright, the conference chamber is through there," Flitch said, indicating to a tan-colored door at one side of the intersection the spread out from the end of the passage. "Glad I could be of assistance." The Arbiter dipped his head marginally in a show of gratitude, but before he had completed even that simple gesture, the man was off, pacing quickly down an adjoining passage. The Elite looked the door over, but did not move toward it, instead turning to watch the human as he moved past a pair of off duty flight mechanics.

Instinct told the Arbiter that he should follow the man. It might not be proper procedure or even wise considering their tenuous situation to stalk a Rebel soldier, but he had not survived so long in the service of the Prophets by ignoring his gut feelings. The meeting could wait.

The two mechanics turned off the passage through a side door, leaving the area empty, save the Arbiter and his fast moving prey, which was almost to the end of the corridor. Running as swiftly as he could without alert Flitch, he halved the distance between them in only a few seconds and was a mere arm length away when the human reached the end of the hall and turned to the right. The Arbiter paused; if this man truly was hiding something, he might be more wary of pursuit than an average man. Finding the hidden switch inlaid in his reflective armor, the Arbiter scanned the area for potential witnesses and obvious security recorders and prepared to activate his personal cloak.

"Oh, hello." Reginald Barclay said, steadying himself after his sudden halt. The Starfleet officer had emerged from around the corner Flitch had turned and almost collided with the three meter giant. The Arbiter swiftly withdrew his hand from the hidden switch and glared at Barclay in annoyance. "Sorry about that, almost running into you I mean," the man continued. "I'm still having some trouble with this ships layout, and the computer panels and directional indicators around this place are hard to read, they give you a headache. I suppose it's from being designed by the Mon Calamari, with their oddly positioned eyes."

As Barclay prattled on, the Arbiter maneuvered past him and looked down the right hallway. Flitch had disappeared, and trying to find him again would be fairly useless. He turned back to Barclay, who was still talking, and let out a brief sigh. The human may have saved his life, and was certainly more competent than he had suspected when they had first met, but he was still very annoying. "So, I suppose your heading for the Captain's conference. I was ordered to be there as well, but I can't seem to locate it. The layout on the _Enterprise_ was much more efficient."

The Arbiter had found both starships' designs equally alien and relatively inefficient, but he didn't care to continue the conversation, instead gesturing down the hallway towards the intersection. "The chamber is down there. Follow." The warrior set off without another word, mildly irritated, leaving Barclay wondering what he had done to earn such a stiff response.

By the time the two arrived, most of those who had been invited were already assembled, arrayed in the large bank of chairs that formed a multi-rowed semi-circle around a raised speaking platform at the back of the room. Like many of the rooms on the ship, the small conference chamber was of a smooth and scalloped shape, brightly lit and focused around a deactivated display screen at hung above the central podium. Most of the people in attendance had a vested interest in what would be discussed, the half dozen or so remaining members of the Enterprise's crew, Jacen Solo, and Tassadar, but with them were also a few of the _Republica's_ own complement. While she had allowed the requisitioning of one of the ship's few meeting areas, Captain Ryceed had not been inclined to allow her passengers a completely private conference, and thus had authorized any off-duty officer who wished access to the meeting. Captain Picard, the defacto leader of the small group, had agreed; the information that was to be relayed would hopefully reach Alliance ears anyways.

As the rest of the assemblage conversed quietly, Lt. Commander Data, Geordi LaForge, and Commander Riker clustered around a computer station in a corner of the room, evidently making final checks on the information they had been able to salvage from the derelict ship's computer. Captain Picard and Tassadar were across the chamber on the large podium talking to one another in hushed tones, the latter seated crossed-legged on the floor, his head nodding shakily as broadcasted his thoughts in the form of words.

The Arbiter, managing to extricate himself from Barclay, moved off to the gently curved back wall of the chamber and located a spot that he could lean against; his lanky Elite musculature made sitting in Mon Calamari-style chairs extremely uncomfortable. Looking to his left, he noted to his mild surprise that the Master Chief was present also, similarly ensconced only a few meters away, his ever present armor reflecting the light of the room dully. Who would think, the Elite mused silently, that he would have not hesitated to kill the human given the opportunity only a few short months ago. This creature, who had lead the team of human survivors that had infiltrated his command ship, fought his way to the bridge, and bested him in personal combat following the destruction of the first Halo station. He had nearly been killed that day, shoved unceremoniously into an escape pod and forced to watch from the depths of space, bleeding and battered, as his ship, the _Ascendant Justice_, was hijacked and used against its own fleet. He had vowed to himself that day that he would not rest until the human's severed head lay in his hands, but circumstances had dictated otherwise. Stripped of his rank and very name for the colossal failure and forced into the death sentence that was being an Arbiter, and then finding himself thrust back with the very cause of his dishonor, made allies by cruel fate.

There was a force still inside him, one he had been repressing for weeks, a little voice that resided along with the repressed teaching of the traitorous Prophets, that still called out for vengeance, for him to seize the human's, the _Demon's_, neck and pry his wretched head free of its foundation. It was his right as a warrior, and the will of the Prophets. And why stop with just the one human; there was a ship full of them within his grasp, waiting to wash away his failure with their blood! The Arbiter's eyes began to cloud with red and his jaw mandibles quivered with anticipation, rows of teeth eager to split human flesh. Slowly, almost involuntarily, his right hand edged toward the plasma hilt that hung from his waist, and he could almost see the triangle of blue flame bursting to life, carving a swath of holy vengeance before him from which none could escape. The heretics and non-believers would fall and with their deaths, he would be absolved.

No.

There was no absolution for him, and slowly, he realized he did not really wish for it. The Prophets had betrayed him; their very Covenant was built upon lies and half-truths. Their will no longer held any sway for with him, and no matter how hard the part of him that still believed in all that he once been resisted, no matter how much his baser instincts fought to break free, he would oppose them. And he would win. All that mattered now was for him to return to his own galaxy, save his people from the destruction that the Prophet's treachery and blind faith would bring. His hand fell from the inactive blade.

The Master Chief had been and was still doing what he had no doubt been trained and bred to do, oppose the annihilation of his species, and the Arbiter would harbor no grudge for one with such an honorable goal. Their motives were one in the same.

The chamber's entry door slid open, and Major Besteen Truul entered, looking weary and strained. Undoubtedly much of the difficult job of holding the ship's dower crew together was in part on the charismatic officer's shoulders, and yet he still found time to aid in the quest of those who had caused him so much trouble and loss. Slipping in just after the Major was another man, younger and better groomed, but similarly drained. It took the Arbiter's untrained eye for human face a few moments to realize that the man was Flitch, who he had been tailing only minutes before. Not revealing any outward sign of surprise or unusual interest, the Elite watched the man carefully as he stopped to talk with Truul, take a datapad from him, salute and then exit. He appeared to be serving as the Major's aide, hardly surprising considering the depleted crew strength and their past experience together. This might explain why Flitch had been behaving strangely before, out of his element in his current capacity but still, something about his demeanor was strange.

As Truul took a seat at the rear of the small chamber, Captain Picard straightened his worn uniform and approached the main platform's oratory stand, apparently satisfied with the size of assembled crowd. Taking their cue, the three officers at the computer terminal gathered their data discs and pads and joined the Captain and Tassadar on the platform.

"As most of you know, before our last jump into hyperspace, the _Republica's_ command crew located a derelict ship adrift near our position. A Starfleet vessel." At this, several of the attendees began to whisper excitedly. Picard paused, allowing the conversation to die off before continuing. "With Captain Ryceed's approval, Commander Riker and a small away team docked with the ship and were able to retrieve several pertinent sensor and ship's logs from its computer. From those files, they were able to determine the location and composition of the wormhole the ship used to travel here. I believe Mr. Data and Commander LaForge have discovered several specifics about the anomaly that may help us use it to return to our respective home galaxies."

The captain moved to the side, allowing Data to take a place at the main podium. "After repairing and accessing the navigational logs that Commander Riker's team was able to recover from the _Cornwall_, I compared the starship's flight pattern with the stellar imaging recorder built into the _Cornwall's_ passive scanning array." The android inserted a small disc into a receptacle mounted onto the speaking stand, and the large display behind the speakers lit up, revealing a simplified star field, crisscrossed by multicolored lines of digits that indicated trajectory, speed, and location for the tiny representation of a Starfleet Steamrunner-class vessel. "Twenty five hours, four minutes before being picked up by the _Republica's_ sensors, the star pattern displayed by the imaging logs changed drastically, altering from a configuration documented in the Parideian Cluster, Milky Way Galaxy, to the stellar configuration correspondent to the star system where the _Cornwall _was located. It is highly probable that is the point at which the starship passed through the wormhole." The computer-generated _Cornwall_ moved about a foot across the screen before suddenly disappearing. The entire image collapsed in on itself, closing on the point where the starship had disappeared, and then blossoming out along with the ship, the star field in the background now completely different.

Geordi stepped up alongside Data. "The ship's propulsion systems seem to have been knocked out either before or during the wormhole transit, but it still had sufficient inertia to be propelled a significant distance away from the exit point. Lt. Commander Data and I were able to extrapolate back from the _Cornwall's _position when we located it, and using its heading and speed, we have a pretty good idea where the wormhole is." This news sent a whisper of relief through those in attendance.

"Most of the scanning information from the transit through the wormhole was corrupted beyond usage," Data continued. "However, from what we do know, it appears that this anomaly is much more stable than the one the _Enterprise_ used to first come to this galaxy, and possibly much larger in dimension. It is highly likely that it is still in existence and will remain in that state for a relatively long period of time, but we lack the data necessary to make an accurate estimation."

From the middle of the rows of seats, a weak voice wavered, cutting the android off. "Um, sirs? What about the energy feedback that the…uh, Enterprise received when it went through last time?" This was from Lieutenant Barclay, who was perched on the edge of his seat, looking surprisingly nervous. "How can we use the wormhole if it overloads the reactor of whatever ship is sent through it?"

Data took the question impassively. "During its passage through the wormhole, the _Enterprise_ did receive critical damage to its warp core, but the boarders from the _Columbus_ played a large part in the ship's destruction. If the containment systems had been operating at full efficiency, unimpeded by the previous sabotage, it is possible that the damage to the warp core would not have been as severe. However," The display changed once again, erasing the star field and replacing it with a representation of a Mon Calamari Liberty-class star cruiser. The scalloped, grayish vessel was covered in a bright-hued field; a depiction of the starship's shielding system. "The shielding technology employed by the Mon Calamari and the Galactic Empire surpasses the Federation equivalent by an order of magnitude or more. This should provide more protection for passage through the wormhole, and the hypermatter fusion reactors used by this galaxy's civilizations should reduce the possibility of a core overload."

Silently, Picard reflected how odd it was that only now that the enormous differences in technology used by this galaxy's inhabitants was coming to their notice. The past weeks had been too hectic and confused to allow for any serious study of the alien hardware, but even a basic overview of Mon Calamari technology limited access to the computer systems had provided his science team revealed that they were centuries, millennia beyond the Federation, even the Borg. The thought filled Picard with a strange mix of emotion; on the one hand, he was relating with species whose technology and culture could prove to be the greatest boon humanity had seen since Zephram Cochrane had activated the first warp drive, but on the other, he was looking at a force that could crush every power in the Alpha Quadrant effortlessly if it was turned to conquest, something the Empire seemed quite good at. Even the fundamental principles of this galaxy's energy production and superluminal drive systems had been nearly beyond Data's very comprehension. Yes, this technology was perhaps _too_ advanced to find its way into Milky Way, even if its bearers were benevolent in nature. Still, he had a duty to his crew; he would see them home. Whatever problems that might develop afterwards would simply have to be confronted if and when they came.   
"Still, there is a danger." Geordi was speaking again. "The damage the wormhole inflicts seems to stem from redirection of the ship's radiant energy from its engines, sensors, and shields back against it, something that even this ship's defenses couldn't fully repel."

"That's where I come in." The audience, overwhelmed by the deluge of information that was being fed to them, was startled by the new voice, feminine and coolly confident, that seemed to be piping in over the room's intercom. In a burst of static, a female figure, glowing bluish-purple, appeared on the display screen. "For those of you who have not met her, this is Cortana, a highly advanced Artificial Intelligence construct," Commander Riker said, glancing sideways at the being's chosen image.

"Highly advanced? You really know how to flatter a girl," the construct shot back, playfully rolling her eyes. "Now, the wormhole. Working with Lt. Commander Data, I believe that I have discovered a way to safely traverse the anomaly. The phenomenon actually seems similar in nature to the Slipspace drive used by the civilizations of my galaxy, and early UNSC scientists had to combat the energy feedback phenomenon to make our faster than light drives usable. It was discovered that certain low-band frequencies, broadcasted constantly during entry and exit of spatial rifts could help repel the feedback and even direct the in-transit starship more accurately. Our vessels do not employ energy shields, but the principle could still be applied by altering the intensity and diameter of the defensive screen in tune with the frequency. Such a pattern would effectively repulse any damaging discharges, and, if I'm right, even direct the wormhole's exit coordinates."

Deep within the Arbiter, a flicker of hope began to grow. He was no engineer, but he had been around Slipspace drives long enough to know that what the computer construct said was true. And, if he understood her implication correctly, there was still hope that he could return to the Covenant and save it from the destruction that the Prophets would bring upon it.

Data and the others paused the briefing, allowing those in attendance to mull over what had been said. While the oration by the android and A.I. was somewhat more technical than was warranted for the discussion, most understood that they new findings meant that perhaps there was a new hope, a chance to get home. Deanna Troi however, who was seat in the front row, seemed more concerned and distracted than optimistic.

"Excuse me," she said. "But you said that the _Cornwall_ was found derelict. Was there anyone onboard? I do remember feeling something…strange from outside the ship before we jumped into hyperspace."

Picard sighed grimly and Riker frowned, nodding his head slowly. "We did encounter a single human survivor in the Engineering section. She's recovering from exhaustion and a few minor injuries in the medical ward." Jacen Solo arched an eyebrow. "But there were others there?" He frowned in concentration, as if trying to pull the answer from thin air. "A hostile force?" Riker nodded again in recognition.

"Yes. Animal-like things, dozens of them. They swarmed us as we were uploading the sensor logs, and my team barely escaped alive. From what little we could recover from the captain's log, they were responsible for damaging the ship and killing most of her crew." The commander exchanged a dour with the captain. "We also believe that the creatures that were on that ship are affiliated with the ones that captured the _Columbus_ and destroyed the _Enterprise_." Not surprisingly, this news sent a collective shiver through those who had been on the Starfleet flagship when it had died, and even the few bored Alliance officers in attendance edged forward in their seats, suddenly intrigued.

"Tassadar here has offered to enlighten us on what he believes these creatures may be," Picard concluded, and he and the others stepped aside, revealing the tall, scaly alien, who was seated on the platform, propped up against the gently curving wall. Dark, orb-like eyes scanned the assemblage once, their reptilian pupils altering in shape and color as he prepared to speak.

"They are known to my people as the Zerg. Since the very beginnings of the Protoss Empire, they have plagued the galaxy, enveloping entire galactic sectors and spreading their influence over a thousand worlds. They are a pestilent race, existing only to consume living matter and assimilate it into their unholy swarm. Dozens of species have been absorbed in this fashion, forming new and terrible warriors, driven only by hunger and animalistic rage. The Zerg do not use technology, instead shaping the beings of the swarm into unimaginable and hideous forms that can fulfill any need. When they attack, no stratagem or intellect is used, they simply throw themselves wave after wave at the defenders until they break them down, and consume them. There can be no negotiation or treaty with them, not even surrender.

Lesser Zerg, those that populate their near limitless horde, are thoughtless, brutal beasts, but there are higher forms, the ruthless Celebrates, and above them, the Overmind. For millennia untold this abomination has controlled the Swarm's actions, his twisted and arcane intellect guiding them towards his ultimate goal. He will not rest until all other life is extinguished or absorbed, and only the Zerg remain.

Since its formation, the Protoss Empire and the Order of the Templar have sought to stop this perversion and his Swarm, but such a foe is not easily defeated; he is as devious as his forces are strong. The Zerg and their master are resilient as well, and whenever one of their infested worlds burns under the bombardment of our fleets, the menace infects another. Still, the Protoss are strong, and we have held them at bay for many centuries, but the arrival of Terrans, humans, at the fringes of our space upset the balance. The Order and the fleet under my command attempted to keep the Swarm away from the newcomers, but internal strife among them made our efforts fruitless. The Overmind played them against us and assimilated many of their worlds and soldiers, so that when I was at last able to strike a truce with the humans, the Swarm was already overwhelming our defenses and befouling Aiur, or homeworld, with their presence. Even the Overmind himself was able to transplant himself onto the battlefields of my home and gloat over his impending victory. In last defense of my race, I attempted to fly one of our battlecruisers into the Overmind's maw and strike it down once and for all by focusing my full psionic energy upon its malevolent heart."

The High Templar's commanding voice paused, and he looked away from the enraptured audience. "However, before my assault was complete, I was torn from Aiur, and found myself in this galaxy. I had hoped that the impact of my flagship and the energy I had imbued into its hull would have been enough to destroy it and throw the Zerg into disarray, but perhaps I was mistaken." After a moment of silence, Tassadar raised his head again, this time looking directly into Captain Picard's eyes. "We can only hope that the Zerg presence in your galaxy is isolated and newly seeded. If that is so, there is yet hope for your people, but if this blight is allowed to take root, I fear that neither you nor I nor any other mortal force can save them."


	17. Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Five

After the briefing had concluded and those assembled had dispersed, Jacen Solo found himself left with little to do but wait until the _Republica _reached the Alliance rendezvous point, estimated, barring the need for further evasion, to occur in early the next morning ship time. Most of the passengers had gone to their quarters to rest after the eventful day, and most of the crew was off duty as well, the cruiser having shifted into night watch an hour earlier. The young Jedi was not tired however, and after pausing in his quarters briefly to stow his lightsaber and eat a nutrient bar he had taken from the galley earlier, found himself wandering the empty, spartan halls of the ship's crew section, strolling down random passages and slipping in and out of turbolifts. As he walked, his mind wandered, mulling over the information given at the conference and allowing his Force-empowered senses to drift through the decks of the starship, picking up the general mood of the resting crew and the random snippet of thought or voice.

He could sense a wide variety species: human, Mon Calamari, Bothan, Sullustan, and their faint Force presence lent him a feeling of familiarity, the feeling of being home. And yet, he knew, he wasn't home. Like the others, he was out of time and place, trapped for the moment in a world he didn't belong, and in his case, it was even worse. Picard and his crew were simply in the wrong galaxy, an unknown and alien world, but Jacen was out of time, in a place he knew all to well, from the stories that his parents and other veterans of the Galactic Civil war who had raised him. But it was different now; events were not unfolding as they should have. The Emperor was not supposed to have been destroyed yet, the Alliance fleet should not have been routed at Sullust, Lando…

The man slammed his fist against a bare metal wall, overwhelmed by sudden emotion. Lando wasn't supposed to have died. He had learned of the General's death not long after the _Republica_ had fled, and the news had convinced him to stay away from his father for the time being. Han took the loss of friend hard; Jacen had seen that first hand after Chewie had died.

Of course, the loyal Wookiee wasn't dead in this place. He was still Han Solo's best friend and copilot, freedom fighter and mediator to the tensions that often flared up between the Corellian and his future wife, Leia.

Oblivious to the empty hallway around him, Jacen slammed the other arm into the blank bulkhead and forced his forehead against the cool metal. No, Chewie was dead. He died at Sernpidal, in his world, the real world. This was a different place, a different reality; it couldn't really be his past. Jacen Solo was the same, but everything else was different. No, the Alliance had never been routed, they had defeated the Empire at Endor, Palpatine had died on the second Death Star at the hands of his uncle and grandfather, Lando and Admiral Ackbar were still alive, Chewie was dead.

Anakin was dead.

Hot tears began to pour down Jacen's cheeks, and he didn't know why. Anakin, his brother, was still alive. He had been alive when Jacen had been torn from his… the real universe. Anakin wasn't, couldn't be dead. How could he even know such a thing? The Jedi attempted to focus on the thought, trace it to its source, but the image of his brother's face, the usually boyish and happy visage pale and lifeless, quickly faded into the mist. Then another picture began to form, the smooth curve of a feminine chin, graceful nose, slender lekku…

Jacen wrenched his head away from the wall and furiously rubbed his tear-stained face. No more. He wouldn't give in to the emotions further delving down this path of memory might bring; it was not the Jedi way. Reflection was essential to the life of a Jedi, but this was not the time, he was still trapped in this strange, alien galaxy, and it was alien; he might not be able to resist the dark emotions he was feeling again on the verge of conscious thought without the guidance of one more experienced in the ways of the Force. Whatever the circumstances of this unexpected sojourn and the conflict he had been embroiled in before it had forced him to become, he was still a mere apprentice, and he wished for the wise and gentle guidance of Master Luke more than ever.

Withdrawing the wayward tendrils of his consciousness and sealing himself off from the multitude of beings onboard the ship, Jacen straightened his worn jumpsuit and resumed his solitary walk, trying to focus again on what he had learned at the briefing. He had to remain patient and collected until Picard and the others were able to return to the wormhole, and hopefully, send them all home. He was a Jedi, he could work through this.

After a few more minutes of aimless travel, Jacen recognized a wider hallway, and for no particular reason, turned down it. Even though he could not decipher the script that adorned blandly colored plaques and markers around the door which was placed prominently in one wall, he remembered the configuration; this was the ship's primary Medbay. He had come to the place earlier that very day, helping the medics transport the _Cornwall's_ lone survivor from the hangar deck. He had left as soon as the doctors moved her to an analysis table, not wanting to be in the way, and had all but forgotten about the incident, but being back here made him oddly curious about the patient who was likely still in the facility. Considering briefly, Jacen decided he had nothing better to do at the moment, and approached the large, ovoid door, which slid open silently.

Beyond it was a short hallway complete with a small reception table, a computer terminal, and several door ways that must have lead to decontamination chambers and changing rooms. A thin transparisteel partition separated the room from the circular nexus of the complex, a dimly lit chamber filled with clean plastoid tables, equipment receptacles, and dormant medical droids. As Jacen took a few steps into the reception area, silver protocol appeared from out of nowhere and stepped into his path. "Greetings sir," it said in an artificially friendly voice. "I am afraid that most of the medical staff is off duty right now. Do you require emergency attention?"

Jacen shook his head. "No, I'm fine."

"Is there another who is in need of the medical staff then? I could dispatch an emergency team to any point on this ship if needed."

Again Jacen replied in the negative. The droid was perplexed, inclining its reflective head slightly to get a better look at the out of place human. "Then, if I may ask, what are you doing here sir? It is well past the last duty shift, and maintenance is not scheduled to make their rounds through her for another forty six minutes."

'Why _am_ I here,' he wondered silently. His mind had seemed to have unconsciously propelled him to the spot, and now that he was here, he wasn't quite sure what to do. There was that sense of curiosity about the survivor, but surely she was asleep now, even if the doctors had been able to bring her around again. What purpose was there and going to see her right now?

"I was wondering about one of the patients that arrived here today, a human woman, rescued from a derelict starship before we jumped into hyperspace," he asked, trying to look over the droid's shoulder.

"I am unfamiliar with the circumstances of her injury, but there was one woman brought in today that you may be referring to. She was treated for a variety of minor dermal injuries and given stimulants to alleviate a neurochemical imbalance caused by stress and exhaustion. Her condition was stabilized and she is now resting in the main recovery ward. If you wish to see her or any other of our patients, you will have to await regular visiting hours, which begin at 8:00 hours."

Jacen thanked the droid and swiftly exited, sensing that it was becoming annoyed at the breach of protocol. When the thick doors sealed themselves behind him, Jacen sighed and looked over the empty passageways around him absently. Perhaps he should try and get some sleep now, even if the walk hadn't tired him out as he had hoped it would. Trying to remember the path he had taken to get there, the man set off, his mind still lingering on the woman in the recovery ward. Why was he so curious about her? He had only seen her for a few minutes while he had walked with the medics; she was young, perhaps a few years older than himself, of slight build, with frayed brown hair and soft features that had shown through the grim and dried blood that had obscured her face. In fact, despite her injuries and tattered condition, she had actually been quite attractive, looking very much like Tenel Ka, one of the Jedi students he had once trained with.

He felt his cheeks begin to warm, and immediately banished the thought. He didn't even know her, and now was hardly the time to allow his hormones to get the better of him. All the same, thinking about her had cheered him up after the sense of emptiness his strange vision had brought on previously.

Rounding a corner, Jacen noted someone else in the hallway heading towards him, a woman dressed in a white Alliance uniform, with her hands tucked behind her back and head down, evidently thinking. Assuming she was just another crewer, Jacen continued to walk down the hall until the two had nearly crossed paths. Then, as she looked up to brush a few strands of russet hair from her face, he got a good look at her face. It was Leia Organa.

Jacen faltered, not sure of what he should do. He was still unsure as to how to deal with being around his mother and father as they had once had been, and despite his conviction that this world was not his own, he could not bring himself to think of them as entirely different people. Of course, if they were really his parents, interacting with them might be an exceedingly bad and perhaps even dangerous idea, but he couldn't help but feel that they might be able to provide him comfort or guidance in this ordeal, as they always had done before.

"Are you alright?" Jacen froze, and saw that Leia had stopped, and was now looking up at him, curious as to why had suddenly paused near her. Jacen desperately cast around his head for some response. "I, ah, it's nothing. I'm fine," he mumbled, but Leia was still looking him over, taking in his worn dark tunic, which was devoid of any military insignia, and lingering over his face. "You look familiar. Have we met before?" she asked curiously. Jacen gulped, tried to hide it, and then shook his head. "I…I don't believe so."

"Strange," Leia noted, and then shook away the thought, smiling brightly and extending a hand. "I am Leia Organa, of the Alliance High Council." Trying to look natural while surreptitiously turning his face away from her, Jacen extend his own and shook hers. Without letting go, she maneuvered to face him again and stared even more closely. "Are you sure we haven't met before?" Jacen shook his head again, more vigorously this time. "I'm sorry, but no. I don't think I've even seen in passing you before." As soon as the words left his limps, Jacen wished he could take them back, and cursed his own inborn honesty and the difficulty with lying that entailed. A wry grin crossed Leia's face. "Your not part of the Alliance are you? Are you one of the refugees from Sullust?"

Jacen was drawing a complete blank on facades he could put up to deflect her line of questioning, so he decided to change tactics. He would simply tell the truth. In moderation.

"Actually, I'm a guest on this ship, along with several others brought here by an Alliance agent. We met with the High Council just before the Imperial attack. I don't recall seeing you there though." Leia frowned. "No, I only arrived at the fleet a few hours before the ambush. I didn't have much time to speak with the Council before we had to evacuate." She sighed, and looked off into space sadly. "I don't even know if there will even be a Council anymore when we reach the rendezvous point. We lost so much, so many good people…" she drifted off, sadness etched deeply into her soft face.

Jacen fidgeted uncomfortably as he looked at a side of his mother he was very familiar with, one that had dominated her ever since the Yuuzhan Vong invaded. The Rebels had thought that winning the war against the Empire would bring peace to the galaxy, but it didn't, and the struggle would continue to rage for decades, only the players changed. Even more good people would be lost in the years to come.

Leia noticed that the young man was uncomfortable, and grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "So, you said that you spoke with the Council. Is there anything I should know, or can help you with?" Jacen considered. It would be difficult to explain the mission of the Enterprise crew without revealing his own origins, but his mother was a part of the High Council, and if he was able to convince her that returning to the portal might aid the Alliance in its struggle, requisitioning a ship for the task would be far easier.

Jacen launched into a brief recounting of the circumstances leading up to his presence onboard the _Republica _and Captain Picard's proposal to the Council, as well as its uncertain reaction. He was careful to avoid any detailed descriptions of the origins of those who had found their way to the Rebel fleet, especially himself, and thus the tale was shorter and less coherent than he had hoped it would be, but Leia did not seem to notice many the jumps and discrepancies. After he had finished, she stood silently in thought, allowing Jacen to regain some composure. "That was quite an extraordinary tale," she said at last. "I can see how the Council might have been skeptical. However, if it is true, contact with this United Federation of Planets might provide the Alliance with resources and sanctuary we are in dire need of. When we rendezvous with the rest of the fleet, I will attempt to bring this back to the Council's notice, but I can't promise anything. As you know, recent events have strained our resources considerably, perhaps past the breaking point."

"I understand, and anything you can do to help us would be greatly appreciated," Jacen said, relieved that she had not pushed for more details. However, Leia was still looking at him very curiously and he almost felt as though she was trying to tap into his mind. His mother, while strong in the Force, had always been too distracted by politics and war to ever fully train and exploit her innate abilities, but she still was able to use it to a limited extent, especially when it came to reading the emotions of her children. Jacen was sure that at this point in time, she was completely unaware of her own gift and would not be able to use it to probe him at all, but he was still very uneasy, afraid to let any damaging foreknowledge of her future slip to the forefront of his mind.

So absorbed were they in this unconscious fencing match that neither noticed that another person was approaching them until a voice rang down the hallway. "What are you doing out here this late Leia? Is everything all right?" It was a powerful voice, tinged heavily by a Corellian accent and years of inhaling leaking coolant fumes. Han Solo, dressed in his trademark worn vest and pilot's leggings walked up behind Leia and placed a concerned hand on her shoulder. Beads of sweat began to form on Jacen's forehead, dealing with his mother alone had been hard enough, and Han was far more likely to press him for details if their conversation started up again.

Leia took his hand in her own, and turned back to smile up at the gruff smuggler turned general. "I'm fine Han. My meeting with Captain Ryceed took a little longer than I expected, that's all."

Satisfied, Han turned a suspicious gaze upon the young Jedi, who attempting to look as unassuming as possible and failing miserably. "Who are you?" he asked bluntly. "You don't look like a crewman." Leia rolled her eyes in mild exasperation and sent an apologetic smile Jacen's way. "He's a guest of the Council's Han. His group got trapped here when the Imperials attacked." The older man's stretched lips into a tight line, and Jacen flinched, knowing that the general was still deeply scarred by Lando's death.

Rather than lash out though, Han narrowed his eyes and looked Jacen over just as Leia had done. "You look familiar kid. Kind of remind me of a guy I met the last time we were on Ord Cestus. What's your name?"

"I…uh…" Jacen stammered uneasily. "I'm Jacen." Han cocked an eyebrow. "Jacen eh? Heh, I like the sound of that, got a nice ring to it. Where are ya from Jacen?"

Before the Jedi had time to think of an appropriately ambiguous answer though, Leia grabbed Han's arm and began to drag him away. "Alright, that's enough. No need to interrogate the poor man at this hour. Let's get back to our quarters." Han resisted at first, but gave up without much of a fight, sighing and shaking his head. As she guided the man away, Leia called over her shoulder. "It's been nice to meet you Jacen. I'll let you know what the Council has to say when I see them."

When the younger versions of his mother and father had disappeared from view, Jacen slumped into a nearby wall, exhausted. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to do that again. Still, it was nice to talk to them again, even if they were different than the people he remembered. Not too different though, he reflected as Han's subdued behavior came to mind. He had seen that before. For all his bravado and legendary toughness, the loss of friends hit him just as hard as it would anyone, perhaps more so. And that was one trait he had passed on to his son.

Now very tired, Jacen righted himself and set off for his quarters, leaving the hall as empty and quiet as it had been a few minutes before.

Darth Vader's crimson blade emitted a piercing hiss as it cleaved easily through the docking chamber's durasteel wall, leaving in its wake a wide swath of glowing molten metal. Molecules supercharged by the energy blade, flecks of the boiling wall spewed out, spattering against the Dark Lord's armored carapace harmlessly and dousing the surrounding floor with a searing rain. Luke, who had only barely ducked beneath the powerful cut in time, ignored the burning pain as a few droplets burned through his flight suit, and rolled away from the scarred wall and flipping up backwards to right himself. He had little time to regain his balance however; Darth Vader and his lightsaber lunged through the air in a heart beat, impacting Luke's own blade with the force of a cargo hauler and driving him back even further.

Too drained now to effectively parry or deflect Vader's brutal strikes, Luke was forced to block each one as it came, his arms bearing the brunt of each blow. Vader was to powerful, and did not seem to tire even as the two combatants battled back and forth around the immense docking bay over and over again. Every nerve in the Jedi's body cried out in anguish, and Luke could not calm them with the techniques Yoda had taught him, his every once of will and force energy was needed to keep Vader's energy blade from cleaving away an arm or leg. There was no place to run or hide here, no cliff to try to force Vader over, or alley to try and disappear into as there had been during their last meeting. It was only father and son now, a battle of two uncompromising opponents, and whatever outcome would see the end of the conflict, it would not be a draw.

The young Jedi sensed that Vader was pushing him up against a support pylon, and ducked around Vader's side, saber raised up high to block the inevitable reprisal. However, instead of bring his blade down against Luke's, Vader's free hand quivered slightly and the younger man was thrown back, rolling along the hard metal floor several times before regaining control. Not bothering to wipe the trickle of blood that began to pour down from the corner of his mouth, Luke propped himself up on one arm and used the other to fling his blade at Vader's unguarded legs. Anticipating the take but unable to deflect it, Vader leapt two meters into the air, allowing the green disc of energy to fly harmlessly underneath, and landing just in time to see it arc back into Luke's out-stretched hand.

"You have learned much since our last encounter," Vader praised darkly, stalking towards Luke without breaking step, but the other blocked out the empty words, instead focusing on his opponent and his surroundings, searching for a way out, a bit of high ground. Out of the corner of his eye, something caught his notice, but before he could register it fully, the Dark Lord was upon him again, red blade slashing inexorably forward. Luke strained against the blows, but this time he attempted to guide each strike so that Vader would push him closer to what he had seen. Ducking under a horizontal chop, Luke brought himself around the near invincible titan, and for a fleeting second before Vader maneuvered to face him again, Luke could see clearly what had caught his attention.

_That was it! _

Yes, maybe, just maybe, if he could move a few dozen meters down the hangar deck, to the far wall. Luke let his reaction time slip slightly, allowing Vader more time to aim and execute his hacking attacks. The Sith took the posture change in stride focusing his energy into individual, precision aimed slices and cuts rather than brutal, erratic flurries and jabs. Yes, Luke thought, think I'm weakening, push me back. As he continued to block and stumble backwards, the Jedi could feel the icy tendrils of Vader's consciousness try to invade his own, searching for the source of Luke's change in defense. Strengthening his mental walls as much as possible, he was able to stave of the incursion, but the effort exhausted him further. This last gambit had to work; he wouldn't have the strength for another. The white, energizing glow of the light was fading fast from his perception, and nothing his old masters had taught him could rescue him now that he had been pushed so far. No, it was this, or failure, and whatever that would bring.

For the first time since the start of the fight, Luke forged forward, jabbing at his father's chest plate and sweeping up under one of the cyborg's powerful swipes. Burning energy nicked the material and Vader faltered, forced to pull back to a defensive posture. "There is still some fight left in you I see. You will make a powerful apprentice indeed." Luke grinned grimly, and pressed forward again, but this time Vader was ready, and set against Luke's strikes with his own weapon, and forced them back towards the attacker, peeling away the Jedi's offense as if it were skin of a muja fruit. Immediately, Luke was back on the defensive, loosing ground with each blow. _Good._

After a few more exchanges of blows and a failed Force push on Luke's part, he sensed they were nearing the wall he had chosen, one studded with large protrusions of machinery and conduits that extend up into the ceiling and branched into the floor. Allowing the Force to be his eyes, he made a mental picture of the surrounding area, and then gritted his teeth, bracing himself for what was to come.

Two more slashes, and they were at the wall, and ominous edifice that sloped up slightly into the armored ceiling high above. Moving to intercept a new flurry of savage blows, Luke's back knocked against the hard surface, and knocked off guard, he let his saber dip slightly. The opening was only there for a moment, but Vader saw it, thrust forward, bringing his bulk within inches of Luke's bloodied face. Moving faster than the eye could see, a gauntleted fist smashed into the side of the Jedi's skull, and Luke went flying to the side, rolling uncontrollably for several long meters and finally coming to a halt, propped limply against the frame of an opening in the wall, a very large opening.

Struggling to retain consciousness as the resounding concussion still bounced around his skull, Luke found himself in a doorway perhaps two and a half meters wide, and twice that tall, one that lead into a long, closed hallway. At the end of the expanse, blue white energy coursed up and down a sheer wall along bits of exposed cable and between jutting power regulators. The huge arcs of energy twisted their way from a glowing pool on the floor along the wall and up into many waiting ports and mouths that fed pipes and conduits; this was the power distribution nexus for the entire deck.

Seemingly unaware of the sight behind him, Luke half stumbled, half crawled into the hallway, but Vader was approaching quickly, covering the distance between them in an eye blink. However, before the armored combatant could reach his quarry, Luke clenched his fist, and huge coil of cable came free from the surrounding wall, lashing down upon the Sith Lord, electrical energy sparking from its ruptured end. Caught off guard, Vader was only able to partially slow the snake-like coil, and was thrown back, letting loose a cry of anger and surprise. Luke did not pause to relish the small victory, instead dragging himself further away from the doorway until he reached a protruding control console and was able to drag his battered body upright. By that time, Vader had also recovered, and was striding forward, seemingly unscathed save for a large dent on his right shoulder plate, lightsaber poised to strike. Luke waited motionless, saber hanging limply from one hand as the dark lord casually tossed the detached cable aside with the flick of his wrist and then continued forward. Then, finally, Vader crossed the hallway's threshold.

Even through the pain and turmoil in his body and heart, Luke couldn't help a sad smile as he watched the Sith approach. "I'm sorry father," he whispered, and then plunged his right hand into the open face of the control panel, artificial flesh and tendons of the fake hand Darth Vader had forced him to wear smashing through thin glass and plunging deep into the wring below. For a moment nothing moved saved the sparks that leapt up from the ruined console, and then with a titanic creak, thirty tons of durasteel crashed down upon the dark lord's head. Luke got one last look at the dark robed man before the thick, solid containment blast door of the power nexus pushed him from view.

Luke gasped a sigh of resigned relief. The gambit had worked, and Darth Vader was now under clamped under enough weight to set an AT-AT off balance. Sorrow began to overtake him almost immediately however; he had not wished to destroy his father, but in that moment, his will to survive had taken hold, and he had reached out at his only possibility, the last possibility. He could have saved the man, Anakin, he knew there still was good within him, there had to be. Slowly withdrawing his artificial hand, now marred by a dozen deep cuts and revealing cold mechanical wiring underneath in some places, Luke collapsed to the floor, out of both exhaustion and grief. Tears began to stream from his eyes as he stared at the impassible, three meter thick blast door, and he absently released the grip on his lightsaber, which obediently retracted and fell silent.

Then Luke felt it. Faint at first, but then blossoming exponentially, the Jedi could sense a powerful presence in the Force nearby, his father. Luke's heart jumped nearly into his throat; he was alive! His brash action had not doomed a redeemable man, his father. But the Jedi's elation was short lived, as the presence in the Force continued to grow, swelling up far past what Luke had felt from Vader during their duel, doubling and then tripling to the extent that Luke almost had to close off his senses for fear of overload. And then, from deep within the solid block of durasteel that blocked Luke off from the hangar deck, a deep roar began to resound, basic and overwhelming, a sound the made the entire star destroyer resonate with power and made the air itself tremble. Slowly, impossibly, the block began to rise, screeching against its own massive weight and the grooves and gears that had guided it in its fall. Machinery in the ceiling above began to stress and snap, and the block rose even faster, now bulging out into the wall of the hallway itself, tearing a path in the metal. Finally, with a terrific roar, the entire assemblage tore free of its constraints, flying backwards out onto the flight deck, where it impacted and screeched along the polished floor for a dozen meters before coming to rest against a parked shuttle craft. And there, in the place the block had once occupied, a lone figure stood. His armor was bent and cracked in places, and his long flowing cap was torn, but Darth Vader was whole, burning with pure, dark emotion.

Luke gaped in shock and horror, stumbling back away from the shattered console and fumbling for his saber's ignition control. "So, there is still emotion within you that Kenobi was not able to drive away. I felt your fear, your desperation, your anger Luke. Remember how good it felt to give into those impulses, how right it was. The Dark Side can give you that feeling and clarity again, and so much more." A twisted sort of pride rang in Vader's electronically distorted voice as he leapt out of a large depression that had appeared in the hard metal floor, easily a meter deep at its center point. Landing with a muffled thud, the dark lord moved towards Luke again, this time with a noticeable limp, but still very much mobile.

The battered Jedi tried to escape the unstoppable force, stumbling blindly backwards down the hallway, the thrumming sound of the power junction growing ever louder. Amid his confusion and pain, the little voice he had attempted to repress earlier reemerged, and could not help but again consider his father's offer. It was now obvious that it would be impossible to defeat him in this contest; perhaps he should submit, join the Sith lord and learn the ways of the Dark Side. Yoda and Obi-Wan had taught him well, surely he would be able to repress the evil and selfish emotions that would attempt to consume him, and use his newly gained power to at last redeem his father. After all, if Anakin Skywalker was still alive deep with Darth Vader's soulless brooding heart even after all this time, Luke could survive corruption long enough to formulate a new plan.

Even as he pondered this question, Yoda's teachings warring against logic and self preservation, Vader came within striking range and easily smashed through Luke's faltering and distracted defensive stance, sending his lightsaber spinning away. The silver hilt clanged against a tall regulator cone that was fixed amid a river of pure electrical energy and fell to the floor near the sea of arcing bolts and rivulets of charge that flowed around the floor adjoining the distribution wall. Disarmed and without hope of salvation, Luke stumbled further back, now only a few strides from the low pit that collected the pulsing waves of energy, and fell onto knees no longer able to support his weight. Through raw and tearing eyes, Luke stared up at Darth Vader who now stood only an arm span away, his red blade inches from the Jedi's forehead.

"This is your last chance my son. Join me and bring order to the galaxy, or join the old fool in the emptiness of death." The words were cold and absolute; these were truly Luke's only options. As he stared up at his father's emotionless nightmare mask, the last of the young Jedi's resolve and discipline began to dissolve. There was no other way.

Without any warning, a piercing, angry whistle drowned out the sound of the power nexus and Vader's own artificial breathing. Taken off guard, the dark lord spun to identify the noise, and was instantly hit by a wave coursing blue energy, which wrapped around his limbs and discharged against his ebony helmet, causing it to glow ghostly white. The towering cyborg stumbled back a few foot steps, and there, lightning still pouring from several apertures arrayed out from his tubular body, stood a little blue and white astromech droid. "R2," Luke managed to mumble, so completely astonished that all thought of his impending fall to the darkness was banished. Blatting and whistling in rage and determination, the droid rolled forward, the energy wave intensifying to the point where Luke could barely look directly at it.

However, instead of succumbing to the increasing voltage, Darth Vader began to straighten himself, and the coursing serpent tongues of searing power ebbed down away from his torso and head, focusing in on his forearms and then hands, now free of their lightsaber hilt, dropped during the initial onslaught. The astromech did not relent, wailing with more emotion and determination than Luke had ever seen come from a droid, and intensified the blast further, bringing its own internal systems to the brink of failure. He did not care, protecting Luke was all that mattered, even if it meant facing an opponent he could not possibly defeat and still cared for, even after all these years.

As his own armor began to glow with a translucent light, Vader let loose a deafening roar, and the energy he had collected in his hands blasted back at R2-D2. The little droid was motionless for one moment as the energy began to lick its worn hull, let out a mournful sigh, and then rocketed backwards, its wheeled legs tearing away from the burning chassis. Blackened and scarred beyond recognition, the pieces of what had once been Luke Skywalker's faithful servant and loyal friend landed in the deformed doorway, now little more than the more debris left behind in the wake of the combatant's struggle.

No words could fully describe what the young Jedi felt in that moment; it was as if the pure sorrow and revulsion at seeing his friend being obliterated for nothing more than trying to save the life of his master had taken the form of a cleansing wave and wiped away all Luke's hope, all of his desperate plans, Yoda and Obi-Wan's teachings, his very will for living. All that was left was rage, rage at the monster that towered over him still. Anakin still lived one with in that twisted thing, but there was no hope of saving what little of the man remained, the evil was too dominate and pervading. And if Luke succumbed, he too would become like that thing, an entity of pure malevolence, without a single scrap of humanity or chance of redemption.

Drawing not on the light or the dark, Luke somehow found the strength to rise to his feet and look upon the Dark Lord as he casually summoned his lightsaber back into a gloved hand. "You have failed, my father," Luke whispered icily. "I will never turn. You have shown me to what depths the Dark Side will truly lead."

Vader's opaque eyes looked down upon the man, who despite his many injuries, was standing taller and more resolutely than ever before. "Perhaps I was wrong after all," he intoned simply, and then raising and igniting his crimson blade in a single motion, aimed a slash at Luke's exposed legs. Mere inches from the torn flight suit however, the beam halted as if impacting some invisible wall and Vader glared back at his son's grim, determined face. Luke's eyes were fixed upon his fathers mask, and his hands were outstretched, contorted strangely, beckoning at the Sith's straining blade. Grunting with exasperation, Darth Vader withdrew and then attacked again, this time forcing his weapon downward towards Luke's forehead in a horizontal chop. Again, the red beam ground to a halt in midair, although this time the Jedi's focus wavered, allowing the deadly thing to press forward a few more inches.

Luke felt Vader's surprise through the force, and then something else; at last, the Dark Lord had smashed his internal defenses, and was probing his deepest, most secreted thoughts. "You have done well to hide her from me so long, my son, but I am afraid your failure is now complete. Obi-Wan may have blocked you fully from the true path, but I suspect that Leia will be more receptive to my teachings. You will not join me, but perhaps she will." Luke felt as though Vader had just driven a lightsaber through his heart. _Why did you tell me Ben? Why! _Now Vader knew of the sister Luke had only just discovered he had, and without training Luke had been given, she would be consumed by the darkness.

An arcane bellow ripped from the shattered man's gut, and Vader's saber flew back, almost decapitating him. The Dark Lord put up his other arm to deflect the blast, but he was forced away nevertheless, caught up in a torrent of raw Force energy. Luke did not know where this power had originated, but he no longer cared. Vader had to be stopped, whatever the cost. Palms rigid and angled at the cyborg, Luke slowly, and then more surely, began to take steps away from the surging cauldron of energy that lay behind, newly born wind rustling his hair and tattered clothes. Darth Vader faltered further, and Luke pressed, tightening his control over the torrent and using it to lash his foe, pounding him with coils of invisible force and overwhelming power. Beyond the wave, the Jedi could feel his father weakening fast, as if the new onslaught had taxed his energy reserves beyond the breaking point.

For the first time truly desperate, Vader pushed back, lending his own energies to the storm, and forcing Luke to loose ground again. Lip beginning to bleed between clenched teeth, the Jedi gathered up more of the knots of power and sent them again at the Dark Lord, but this time he was ready, and reflected them back, making Luke again step back to remain balanced. As this assault continued, neither combatant noticed the small silver hilt lying at the very edge of the expanse of electrified deck plate. Neither noticed as Luke's failing efforts brought him closer to it. Neither noticed as his left boot came down upon its smooth, rounded surface. Then it was too late.

Suddenly falling backwards over the discarded lightsaber, Luke was unable to resist a new wave of invisible energy, and to his disbelief, felt an arc of lightning shoot up past his head, and then another, and then another. His body was consumed by a violent river of bluish light, and the pain that flamed across his body quickly gave way to numbness, and the darkness set on.

Deep within the Imperial Palace, in the quiet solitude of a simple medical chamber, Darth Vader looked upon the barely living remains of his only son. In the darkness, his synthetic breath was quickened and irregular, reverberating softly though the liquid that sustained the Jedi's immobile form. There, on that Star Destroyer, he had not acted quickly enough, he had been too slow in pulling his son from the nexus's deadly embrace, and he had all but died for it, his mind now trapped in a coma the greatest physicians in the Empire could not remedy. Luke had not been felled in combat, or even chosen the path of noble sacrifice; he had succumbed to an _accident_. There, in that narrow hallway, Vader's ambitions and plots had been forgotten, the Dark Side's icy grip had weakened; a twisted man had held his broken son in his arms. There, on the cold, metal floor, for the first time in two decades, Darth Vader had wept.


	18. Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Six

"Realspace reversion in ten seconds," a comm officer reported from a crew station on the _Republica's_ bridge, his voice noticeably tinged by anxiety. Captain Ryceed nodded and rose from her command chair, careful to hide her own apprehension. They had been out of contact with the Rebellion for nearly a week, and she had no idea what might await the _Republica _at the Alliance redoubt. Assuming the Imperials hadn't caught up with them, the command frigate _Redemption_, what was left of Rogue Squadron, and the few transports and gunships that had escaped Sullust would be awaiting them, but the hope was that there would be a greater force in waiting. The Imperial ambush had been premature, and there were still Alliance fleet assets elsewhere preparing to jump. Hopefully, the _Redemption_ had been able to stop them from rendezvousing at Sullust and diverted the remaining fleet here. They may have lost the flagship and a large portion of the Sullust battle group, but the fleet elements from Mon Calamari and Arbra would still make the Alliance a viable military threat.

"Initiating reversion."

Beyond the bridge's armored viewport, the roiling darkness of hyperspace shimmered and then gave way to a vast field of stars, unbroken by planetary bodies or nebulae; the Alliance fall back position was fixed in the rarely-traveled emptiness between Hutt Space and the Brak Sector, near an old deep-space observation station that had been converted into a Alliance supply depot, abandoned during the height of the Old Republic thousands of years ago.

"Are you picking up any Alliance signals?" Ryceed asked expectantly, probing the empty space beyond with narrowed eyes. The gesture was futile, even relatively close starships would be too far off to see without the optical enhancers built into the view port's transparisteel sheath locked onto a target, but the captain persisted nonetheless. She had fought in more than one battle where her ship had literally jumped in on top of an enemy cruiser, and her experience told her that she might well be doing that now. Considering how close they had come to detection the previous day, it was possible that the remainder of the fleet had been ambushed or followed, and the only thing awaiting them here was the deadly green flame of a Star Destroyer's broadside.

"Yes sir," Ryceed's executive officer replied, analyzing a sensor readout. "Several. Directly forward, 35 degrees above our axis." Ryceed smiled slightly. At least it wasn't a trap.

"Alter our heading towards the signals and get me a tight band transmission to the _Redemption_ when we are in range." As the XO acknowledged the order and moved off to oversee the bridge crew, the captain called up the ship's imagining sensors on one of her command terminals and observed as the helm brought the Alliance fleet into view. They were only a few pinpricks of light at first, virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding stars, but as the cruiser changed course, and sped forward, the view quickly sharpened, viewscreen automatically focusing on and enlarging the center of the group of ships.

Ryceed's eyes widened and she grabbed a nearby guardrail, squeezing it hard to regain focus. There, displayed before her, was the shattered hull of what had once been a MC-80 Star Cruiser, the mightiest weapon in the Rebel Starfleet. Now instead of a majestic, almost organic-looking hull adorned with its characteristic systems bulges, the ship was charred wreck, listing starboard lazily in the deathly quiet of space. Illuminated by its few functioning running lights, the cruiser's hull was almost uniformly covered in huge swaths of black carbon burns, and sported numerous vast gashes, one of which nearly bisected the wreck, exposing two dozen decks to space. It looked like the carcass of a huge stellar monster of legend; it's slowly rotting ribs jutting out into the cold vacuum. A single ion drive remained functioning, pulsing blue light wearily as it attempted to keep the vessel from spinning end over end into the blackness.

As the image began to pan back, revealing more of the fleet, other officers took notice, pausing to gape in horror at the image on the captain's screen. There were six large ships in total, two MC-80s, a pair of smaller Mon Calamari vessels, a light cruiser and modified carrier, a retrofitted Lanowar Assault Cruiser, and finally the medical frigate _Redemption_. Every ship without exception seemed to have suffered damage, but the MC-80s had taken the worst of it, the second only in somewhat better repair than the drifting hulk it was holding position next to. Dozens of pinpricks, fighters, shuttles, and repair tugs of all designations darted around them, docking with the various ships or angling in towards the 500-meter half-wheel space station that lay in the midst of the motley assortment of ships.

"By the Force," Commander Gavplek, Ryceed's XO, whispered unbelievingly. "That's the _Camaas. _Wasn't she stationed at Mon Calamari?" Ryceed nodded, running one hand shakily through her short hair. The drifting wreck was indeed that ship; she was fast friends its commander, a Rodian named Gredic Farr. They had trained together in the Chandrilan Flight Academy, from which both had been recruited to join the Alliance. Looking at the burned hulk was beginning to turn her stomach in revulsion, and there was a spark of new fear coursing up her spine. If the _Camaas_ was here, where was the rest of the Mon Calamari fleet division? There were nearly two dozen capital ships being held in reserve there. The sickened sensation spread into her chest.

Caught up in the devastation of what was to have been their only reinforcements, which had been expanded onto the main viewer just off the forward view port, the bridge crew barely noticed as one of the turbolifts at the rear of the chamber opened and Leia Organa, Han Solo, and C-3PO stepped out. "Oh dear," the protocol droid mumbled, pausing almost as soon as he was out of the door, optical receptors attracted to the overhead sensor display. Han and Leia as well stopped and exchanged grim looks.

"Captain," the princess called formally, climbing up to the raised command platform in a few quick strides. Snapping her head away from the spectacle, Ryceed offered a smart, if slightly delayed salute. "Ma'am." Leia motioned for the captain to be at ease; she technically didn't outrank the captain, but as a member of Mon Mothma's High Council, she received preferential treatment from Alliance officers, especially the younger ones, who were generally highly enamored of the heroes of Yavin Four. Leia didn't like the special consideration, but as a former galactic senator, she was used to it.

Leia gestured to the display screen. "Do you know what happened here?" Captain Ryceed frowned, and the shot a glare at a nearby communications officer. "Have you been able to get a tight beam to the _Redemption_ yet?" The crewer punched a few digits into his consol, and then looked up. "Aye sir, the connection has been made. And it looks like there's someone on the other end waiting. Holofeed."

"Put it through."

The holographic projector Cortana had occupied the previous day sparked to life and the shimmering image of a woman came into view, her face heavily lined and hair disheveled. Ryceed snapped another stiff salute and Leia gave a small conciliatory bow.

"Captain Imal Ryceed, I am relieved to see that you and your crew have arrived safely," Mon Mothma said wearily. It was plain that she had not slept in days.

"As are we, Supreme Commander," the captain replied, dropping her salute at a respectful speed, still at attention. Mon Mothma's actual title was rarely used in the Alliance Hierarchy, but Ryceed was unusually formal for a Rebel officer, even a captain.

Mon Mothma's projection turned to the princess. "And I am quite relieved to see you here at last Leia. Things have been going very badly here." She looked as though she was going to continue, but the woman trailed of, staring sadly at nothing in particular. Leia stepped forward, her face earnest. "What happened here? Where is the rest of the fleet?" The Chief of State shook her head slowly. "This is it, everyone who made it here. The Imperial fleet launched a concerted attack on Mon Calamari before the fleet could jump away. Most of it was destroyed defending the planet, and only Captain Halder, Kre'fey and Farr's ships were able to escape after it was clear the planet was lost." Ryceed felt a lump forming in her throat at the mention of Farr's name, but she held her tongue, and Mon Mothma continued.

"The battle group that the Council called in from Arbra sent back a recognition code when we called them here, but they should have arrived here yesterday, even if they took the longest and most secreted route. General Madine fears that they too have been ambushed and wiped out. The rest of the ships here are stragglers from Denlly 2 and Cerea, the only two other bases we were able to reach safely. We are trying to contact some of the raider squadrons in more distant sectors, but too much hyperwave activity from our remaining ships risks Imperial detection. It hardly matters though; most of our military forces were already at either Sullust or Mon Calamari. This may be all we have left."

Leia listened in horror, but was able disguise her shock with a deep frown. This was hardly unexpected, but news of what might very well be the death knell of the Rebellion was still hard to bear. "What of the evacuees from Sullust? Have you been able to contact them? From Mon Calamari?" Mon Mothma shook her head solemnly. "As far as we know, no one outside of the three warships I mentioned escaped the surprise attack there. As for the Sullustans, it is highly likely that all of their ships were destroyed or captured soon after they jumped. Without our battleships to guide and defend them, there was little hope they would be able to flee for long. The few scouts we have dispatched indicate that this new Imperial operation is massive; two thousand reserve Star Destroyers have been activated in this quadrant alone. Lord Vader is pressing the advantage, and any sign or even the faintest clue of rebel activity is being investigated ruthlessly. I fear that we will not receive…" she halted, putting up a hand. "That is enough for now. This can be discussed later, with the Council. I have arranged a meeting to take place onboard the observation station at eleven hundred hours."

Leia nodded, trying to look reassuring. "I'll be there." Mon Mothma smiled weakly. "Thank you Leia. I'm not sure how much longer I could have lasted without you here."

The Supreme Commander turned back to Captain Ryceed. "Captain, I'm sure your ship requires supplies and repairs. Our resources are limited, but there is enough fuel and ammunition stored on this station for you to requisition what is needed. Ah, and there is a considerable number of wounded from the other ships here, and we have not been able treat and bed them all. If there is space in your own medical facilities, it is requested that you take on some of our more critical cases."

"Certainly, Supreme Commander. I will send shuttles to the station for them at once." Mon Mothma gave a tired look of recognition, and then squeezed shut and then opened her eyes, as if trying to stay awake. "Ah yes, Captain. Neild Farr of the _Camaas_ is one of the patients I'll have you take aboard. He suffered several injuries during the retreat, but he is in stable condition now." Ryceed felt a small portion of the weight on her chest evaporate. How did she remember, or even know that the two were friends, especially at a time like this? Admiration for the woman growing, allowed a small smile. "That's…good news. Thank you Ma'am."

Looking more drained now than she had even minutes before, Mon Mothma reached for something out of the projector's view, probably the control stud, but before she could end the transmission, the woman looked up again. "General Solo?"

Surprised, Leia and Ryceed looked over to find Han Solo standing between them, trying to look precise and military. "Chief of State, I was wondering if I could ask if General Skywalker is with your fleet group here." Leia felt a shiver run down her spine. Yes, this had been bothering both of them since Sullust. Luke hadn't arrived in the fleet before the Imperial attack, and neither had heard mention of him during the battle or retreat.

Mon Mothma shook her head. "I'm sorry, but no. We had hoped he had docked with the _Republica_ before we evacuated. Did you make contact before or during the battle?"

"No Ma'am, that's the thing. If he didn't rendezvous with your squadron, then he must not have been involved in the battle at all. When Leia… Princess Organa and I left Tatooine; Luke said he had to stop off some place before he met back up with the fleet. If he got there after we escaped…" There was no need to finish the thought. Even a pilot of Luke's caliber couldn't fight off Darth Vader and a fleet of Star Destroyers and Interdictors by himself.

Mon Mothma sighed, sounding increasingly haggard. "This is very troubling news. General Skywalker was a great asset to us, and I know both of you are very close to him. I will instruct our deep range patrols to keep an eye out for distress signals or snub fighter hyperspace signatures from the Sullust system, but I can't promise anything. I am very sorry."

Leia accepted the news and thanked Mon Mothma with a calm and even demeanor, but as she and Han rode the turbolift away from the bridge, Leia lost her composure and fell against the gruff Corellian for support. She wasn't sure if either of them could withstand another loss like this.

The shuttles that had been dispatched from the _Republica_ were given special clearance by Mon Mothma herself, and thus were able to bypass the motley collection of light freighters, Gallofree transports, and what few other support craft were left in the fleet, all waiting in long cues for docking privileges at the supply station's two operational ports. Most of the smaller ships in the fleet were in varying states of undersupply and disrepair, and there were thousands of crewmen in fleet remnant in need of medical attention. The sickbay facilities on the larger starships, even the medical frigate, could not handle the strain, and thus a makeshift hospital had been set up in the facility's main computer lab. It was a dangerous situation; there would be little time to evacuate the station if the Imperial fleet located them, and the facility was unarmed, but it had to be done. Risk or not, Mon Mothma had made it clear that every wounded Alliance soldier still able to be saved would be, she could not bear anymore blood on her hands, and massive die-offs amongst the personnel would be devastating for already weakened moral.

After the three boxy starships had landed in the crowded and noisy shuttle landing bay, the _Republica's_ chief physician and his team rushed off to the makeshift hospital area, while the other crewmen began to load much needed starship components and fuel onto their ships. Almost a dozen others had accompanied the crewers, come to see the High Council and discuss Captain Picard's proposal. Leia Organa, with C-3PO in tow, had departed immediately for Mon Mothma's temporary quarters, taking Major Truul and his aide with her. As one of the more senior and experienced infantry commanders left in the fleet, he would likely need to be close by if and when the Council called for a general command meeting to debate their options.

Left in the bay was Captain Picard himself, Commander Riker, Data, the Master Chief, with Cortana stored in his armor, and inexplicably, the Arbiter. The towering warrior, generally reclusive since the Battle of Sullust, had simply asked to accompany the small Federation delegation, but had not given the reason why. There had been little reason to refuse the request, at the very least he might decide to assist the Alliance crewmen load the shuttles, but there was something about him that was suspicious. Both Riker and the Spartan had kept a very close eye on the Elite during the short transit, but he had seemed to be behaving normal enough, for him, and was now causally watching Leia and Truul as they made their way through the crowd and disappeared through a doorway off the dock.

The Federation officers, instructed by Leia Organa, who was being surprisingly helpful for a person none of them had even seen before a few days ago, to stay on the station until she could arrange a new hearing for their cause, slowly drifted out of the throng of binary load lifters and harried Rebel officers and towards a relatively empty hallway. "I wonder how long we'll have to wait here," Riker said idly, propped up against a wall as he watched the _Republica's _shuttles lift off, bearing new supplies and patients in need of surgery and bacta immersion.

"As long as it takes, number one," Picard responded sternly. "This is a trying time for them, and we mustn't impose more than we need too, at least not yet."

The commander took the admonition with a grim nod, but another spoke up. "Perhaps it would be wise to try and speed up proceedings." This from the AI construct Cortana, who spoke through the Master Chief's own comm unit. "As you say yourself, the Alliance has a lot on its hands right now. If we just wait quietly, we might have to sit here until that wormhole collapses. The sooner we make our case again, the less likely it is we will be forgotten."

Picard shook his head. "I assure you, I will not allow them to forget us. However, we must remember that the Alliance doesn't have to do anything for us; we must convince them that it is in their best interest to give us a ship that can traverse that rift. If our entreaties are too forceful or hasty, we may lose any support we might have left among them, and will be sent back to the _Republica_, perhaps even imprisoned."

Data nodded thoughtfully. "You should seriously consider Captain Picard's warning. He is quite experienced with a wide variety of diplomatic and political situations, and has been involved in the construction of numerous successful treaties and compacts, including the ceasefire implemented to end the Tejan/Oxygeen war, the Sheliak Compromise of Stardate…"

"Thank you Data, that's enough," the Captain said with a reassuring gesture, a bemused smile creasing his lips. The android quickly silenced itself, casting an inquisitive look at the Captain before straightening up and resuming his curious observation of the numerous Alliance officers who skirted around the small group as they passed.

The conversation had lulled for no more than fifteen seconds before the green cyborg spoke up again, this time in his own voice. "Where is the Elite?"

Caught off guard by the question, the others hurriedly looked to the area where the Arbiter had been standing before, against the wall a few feet behind Riker, only minutes before. Sure enough though, the spot was vacant, and there was no sign of the eight-foot titan.

"What the?" Riker mumbled, glancing down at both ends of the hallway to no avail.

"He was there exactly three minutes, nineteen seconds ago, the last time my vision passed over that area," Data noted, almost incredulously. "I do not see how he could have evaded our notice when he left. Disguising such a body mass, even in a crowd such as this, would be extremely difficult."

"Never underestimate one of them," the Master Chief said darkly, shifting his weight into a more alert position for combat. "I once saw a single Elite cut down a squad of seven men in five seconds, just with his plasma blade. And the Arbiter is no ordinary foot soldier." The Chief had developed a grudging respect for the alien over the last few weeks, but he still was perfectly willing to accept that it might turn on them again. Still, if the Arbiter did intend on escape or subterfuge, why would he do it now? The Elite had been left mostly to his own devices for days on the _Republica_, and had made no hostile moves. It didn't add up.

"Whatever he's doing, we have to find him, and fast," Picard warned. "Even benign observation of this station's inner workings without permission could be perceived as a threat, and we are on uncertain footing as it is."

"If he's intent on not being found, were probably not going to find him, at least not until he makes some offensive move," Cortana noted. "His armor has a stealth system integrated into it that can disrupt most motion, thermal, and electrical scanners, as well as deflect light. The Chief's motion sensor system wouldn't be able to accurately pin point him, even without the number of people around us, and I doubt even Alliance internal sensors could pick him up, at least not without a concerted effort."

Picard shook his head. "No, we can't let the Alliance know unless absolutely necessary. Is there any other way we might be able to locate him?"

The AI paused, considering. "Well, he probably knows about just as little about the layout of this station as we do, so he can't have gotten too far in here. It would help if I could guess at his motives, but if he's trying to avoid detection, open, out of the way spaces would be my best bet, with low lighting."

"Covenant personal cloaking shields create a visible ripple effect in good light, but in the dark, they are virtually impossible to see," the Master Chief explained.

Picard frowned, deep in thought. There was little chance that spreading out to look for the Arbiter would succeed, and it might not even be necessary; after all, he had given no indication of hostile motives. Still, there was a danger, and even if the Elite meant no harm, if an Alliance marine discovered a member of Picard's party operating under cloak in a secure portion of the station, his credibility, and their chances of getting home, would be forever lost. Silently, Picard dammed the foolish creature. They had been so close to another hearing before the council; why would he jeopardize that opportunity now?

"Alright, we'll have to at least try and find him. Commander, I want you to stay here, just in case Leia Organa summons us before I return. Stall her and raise us on your comm. It should still function in here." Picard's own insignia chip had been seized during his time aboard the _Torrent_, but he had been able to requisition one from Lieutenant Jossa before they departed. "Commander Data, Chief, come with me. I think it would be best to begin our search from the docking bay. We might at least get a sense were he might have been able to head without alerting attention."

The search, however, did not last very long. Almost as soon as Picard and his team had exited the hallway and waded back into the crowd of crewers and droids who hurried feverishly though the bay, loading and unloading shuttles and fighter craft, the Master Chief halted, staring incredulously at a large stack of ration containers that were being loaded into a waiting Calamarian transport. "You have got to be kidding me."

Surprised by the soldier's incredulous words, the Captain and Data both turned towards the spot, where, among a crew of burly humans and a lone Wookiee who were focused on hefting the large tubes into the ship's waiting maw, a tall, bluish gray creature stood, grappling with a metal box nearly his own size. "I believe our search is at and end," Data commented, triggering an annoyed glance from his superior.

"What are you doing here?" Picard asked caustically after navigating his way though the tightly packed rows of crates and busy droids. Not even bothering to turn to face the human, the Arbiter braced himself against the weight of his charge, at least four hundred pounds of pastisteel and compressed foodstuffs, and staggered over to the transports cargo hatch. With a low grunt, he raised the container up to neck height, and then shoved it onto the waiting deck of the transport, where it was quickly tagged and shoved into the ship's main hold my grateful Alliance pilots. The Arbiter then flexed his smooth, toned muscles, sighed, and turned to the group.

"I have little patience for idle waiting. When it became apparent that the High Council was not going to grant us an audience immediately, I decided to assist the soldiers out here with their recovery. I trust I did nothing to endanger or inconvenience you." The Elite's response was formal and monotonous, but Picard could swear there was a hint of annoyance behind the words. Secretly, he felt the same; there had been far too much waiting since they had rendezvoused with the Alliance fleet. He longed to be back in command of a starship, to decide when and how things would be done. And, of course, he longed to be back home, no longer a weary passenger in a strange land, set amidst a conflict he could only begin to understand or appreciate. Picard was certain that the Arbiter shared mutual desires.

Nevertheless, they were still only unwilling visitors, unneeded baggage, and unless Picard could convince someone that they could offer something of value in return for passage back to the wormhole, they would remain leaves in the wind.

"No…no, it's alright," Picard said, shaking his head. "I would simply appreciate it if in the future you make your actions known to one of us before moving off elsewhere. We wouldn't want there to be a misunderstanding of your motives on the part of the Alliance."

The Arbiter fixed Picard in gaze with his large, golden eyes, and the human suddenly became very aware of just how small he was compared to the warrior. "I shall endeavor to comply with your request, Captain." He placed special emphasis on the final word. Picard grew increasingly uneasy. The Elite had been reserved and compliant in the past, but he certainly was not one to be crossed, by friend or foe.

An uncomfortable silence hung over the group for a long moment, the Federation captain and former Covenant shipmaster locked in a contest of wills. Then, barely indistinguishable over the racket of the docking bay, Picard noticed the badge on his chest was chirping. Ending the uncomfortable moment with a grudging nod, he looked away and slapped the communication device. "Commander?"

"Captain, Major Truul has informed me that the Council will meet with us now. He says time is limited."

Picard acknowledged the message and then turned to Data and the Chief. "We should go."

As the two moved off to rejoin Riker in the far hallway, Picard turned back to the Elite, who still had him fixed in a penetrating stare. "I trust you want to accompany us." The Arbiter inclined his head passively and strode off after Data and the cyborg, leaving Picard alone standing next to the transport, very glad to be out of his gaze.

"I'm not buying his story," the Master Chief said, after making sure his external comm was off.

"Me neither," Cortana agreed, using the optical sensors impregnated throughout the super soldier's armor to monitor the Elite. "I can buy that he's not a xenophobic zealot intent on killing you when your back is turned anymore, but I have a hard time picturing any high and mighty Elite lugging around cargo simply because they were _bored_. He's up to something. You'll be keeping an eye on him too?"

"And a gun sight, when I'm able."

Cortana could never tell when the Chief was being sarcastic, but he rarely was.

"If we are to act at all, we must do it soon!" The tall man slapped his open palm on the dark Dathomiri Pine table to emphasize his point. The gaunt and preoccupied faces observed him from around the huge wooden disc, unmoved by the display. "With each day that passes, Vader's grip upon the Empire strengthens, and more of our contacts turn on us, flee, or disappear outright! We must to consolidate, reassert our authority as the rightful heirs of Palpatine's power; as the only ones who can lawfully chose a new Emperor. If we…"

"You will speak of his Imperial highness with the proper respect," Sate Pestage said icily, his voice little more than a whisper. The Grand Vizier, chief among Palpatine's most trusted advisors, sat stiffly on a narrow, metallic chair, his arms draped limply on its control-studded supports. Dressed in a luxurious burgundy robe and large, domed hat that denoted his high status, Pestage looked very small and frail, as if his master's death had crushed what little life was left in his dry bones. However, dark, beady eyes told a completely different story; the Vizier was still very alert, and very dangerous.

An uncomfortable silence filled the large chamber, and the speaker, his momentum robed, bowed in supplication. "I apologize, Grand Vizier; you know I meant no disrespect our majesty. The past few days have been trying for us all; I am afraid I have been too busy attempting to ensure the Empire's future and our place in it. The effort has distracted me from paying proper respect to our fallen master." The acid in the man's tone was palpable. Pestage said nothing in response, only acknowledging the obvious condescension in the councilor's words by narrowing his eyes on him, further furrowing an already crevassed brow.

Sure that no more objections were forthcoming from the Grand Vizier, the speaker sat lightly in a the large, splendid chair behind him and launched into another impassioned speech, regaling those assembled with a myriad of warnings, foreboding statistics, and half formed plans; everyone in the chamber had heard the dialogue before, and doubtless would again. The man went by the name of Ars Dagnor, who, like most of those listening, had been part of Palpatine's inner circle of advisors. A tallow-skinned and pasty human of slight stature, Ars was surprisingly charismatic for his physical appearance, a skill that the late Emperor had employed more than once, both in private negotiation and to spread the propaganda that helped keep the vast multitudes of Imperial citizens in line.

Arrayed around the large table were six other men of similar ilk, all advisors and confidants of the Emperor, now with their position of power and influence in danger. None of them labored under the illusion that the new ruler of the Galactic Empire would take them on as his own staff, and some of the inner circle had even fled after Palpatine's death, disappearing to one of the numerous retreat worlds and redoubts Palpatine had developed during his reign. Two in particular, Savuud Thimram and Gwellib Ap-Llewft, both minor Force users honed under the Emperor's dark tutelage, had expressed a fear for their own lives before slipping away; Darth Vader's seemingly ingrained resentment and anger towards most Force-users had only been barely contained and directed by Palpatine, and no one knew what he would do to those under the Empire's sanction now that he was left to his own devices.

Most had stayed however, unwilling to relinquish the power they held and confident that with their contacts and influence, Vader might be undermined and subverted, perhaps even removed entirely. Dagnor was the chief advocate of this course, and the advisors Gam Rothwall and Janus Greejatus firmly with him, but the other four, Kren Blista-Vance, Hixa Torenvom, the ever silent Sim Aloo, and finally Sate Pestage himself were more doubtful, unsure of what course to take.

"But wouldn't assassinating Vader at a time like this be risking a major upset in the military hierarchy?" Ars Dagnor cast annoyed glare at the portly Torenvom, angered at having one of his long-winded plots to eliminate the Dark Lord of the Sith interrupted.

"Of course it would mean upsetting the hierarchy Hixa. What else would you call the summary replacement of a head of state?"

Greejatus snickered.

Fleshy cheeks reddening slightly, the counselor pressed angrily forward. "You know what I meant Ars. Vader's mobilization of our reserve fleets to finally eliminate the Rebellion has stretched our forces out more than they have been for decades, and there are rumors that some of the lesser powers are taking advantage of it. I have received reports from one of my contacts near Bakura that the local holonet has lost contact with several of the colony worlds closest to Wild Space. The local Moff has voiced his fears that there may be a hostile force at work."

Ars Dagnor let loose a loud, obnoxious sigh, and then shook his condescendingly. "You of all people Hixa should know that there is no power in this galaxy, alien or rebel, that could pose any serious threat to the Empire. The admiralty is well trained and loyal enough to operate effectively under any adverse circumstance, even a change in Emperor."

"And what if civil war breaks out? Have you considered that?" Sate Pestage said softly, his calm tone and body language disguising his growing disdain for the pompous blowhard across the table. "For all of our contacts and supposed influence, many in the military and government may chose to side with Vader if we make a move against him. You are correct, my friend, no external foe can threaten us, but we can easily tear ourselves apart."

"And what exactly," Ars responded slowly, his voice bearing the same acidic quality it had born during their previous exchange, "makes you believe that anyone would choose to follow Darth Vader, the night terror, murder of friend and foe alike, relic of the traitorous Jedi Order, over the closest friends and confidants of the late, benevolent Emperor? Propaganda proves its usefulness once again; Vader is seen by the unthinking masses as a mindless killer, a terror weapon to be used against those who violated the will and trust of the Emperor. All of Lord Palpatine's more…questionable policies can be attributed to him, and the Emperor's legacy can be left pristine and pure. Most in the higher echelons of power don't even know that our Lord could wield the Force. He, and by extension us, are without fault or flaw. Supplanting Vader is more likely to earn us a place in the Week of Celebration than a civil war."

"Besides, who ever said that anyone would have an opportunity to ally with him against us?" Greejatus intoned with a sickening grin. "If our glorious master could have been done in by filthy Rebel assassins, I'm sure we could think up an appropriate and expeditious fate for our supposed successor."

"Please Greejatus, you don't actually believe the official version of our Emperor's demise, do you?" Blista-Vance scoffed, rolling his bloodshot eyes in contempt. "The Grand Vizier was forced to concoct that story himself; we all know who was really responsible."

"Nevertheless, disposing of Vader will not be difficult when we decide upon the appropriate moment," Ars Dagnor countered before anyone else could add to the increasingly heated discussion. "If anything, the Clone Wars and the subsequent Purge showed us that those who wield the Force are far from invincible. Darth Vader will die, and soon. I can promise this, and that we will be accepted with open arms as the saviors of the Empire after the deed is done."

Pestage slumped back into his chair, disgusted with Dagnor's arrogance and disregard for reason. It was becoming increasingly obvious, that for all his bluster, there was little the man would actually be able to accomplish if the discussed coup was ever to be implemented. It was best perhaps to cut their losses and run; Sate had been gifted a sizable portion of space by the Emperor for his loyal service, the multi-system Citruic Hegemony in which he could comfortably retire. And even if that place was rendered untenable, there were other worlds to which he could flee, secret places, places that even some of those around him now did not know of.

One of the circular chamber's two doors slid silently open behind Sate Pestage, and a lone Stormtrooper captain entered, careful not to disrupt the proceedings. Ars paid him little heed, and began to converse in hushed tones with Greejatus, who was seated next to him. The soldier, Commander of Sate's personal guard, leaned down next to his ear and whispered something imperceptible. The vizier listened intently, his eyes slowly widening with shock as the trooper continued to relay the message. When he had finished and snapped back to attention, Pestage was bolt upright in his seat, swiftly gathering the few flimsi-sheets and datapads he had brought with him up from the table and sweeping them into the folds of his robe. The others looked on in bewilderment.

"Going somewhere, Grand Vizier?" Dagnor asked curiously as Pestage rose from his place at the table.

"I'm leaving Coruscant Ars, now. If any of you value your lives, I suggest you do the same. There is very little time." He cast imploring looks at the two of his colleagues who might still see reason and inevitability; Dagnor and his cronies were beyond hope. With only a moment of hesitation, the silent Sim Aloo rose and took a place at Pestage's side, but Hixa, after exchanging a nervous look with Ars, shook his head, double chin wobbling with the effort.

Sighing resignedly, Sate turned away from the table and began to make his way for the exit, Aloo and the Stormtrooper in tow. Before he made it out of the room however, a voice behind made him freeze.

"So it has come to this. Our Grand Vizier turning tail and running from certain victory like some xenu coward. How shameful, I never could understand what Palpatine ever saw in you. What has caused you to reveal your true colors at last, I wonder? Has Vader bought you out? Found an alien wench who will take even you to bed?"

A wave of fury washed over the Grand Vizier, but he was able to suppress it, allowing this to be his only response: "You will find out soon enough Ars. You will find out soon enough." With that, not even bothering to turn to deliver the final message, Sate stalked out of the chamber, the door snapping silently shut after he and his companions had passed from view.


	19. Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Seven

Jean-Luc Picard's tone was even and calm, not a hint of his ever-present weariness or anxiety at the importance of the short speech he was wrapping up evident in his voice. His audience, a small group of the Alliance's highest remaining officials, sat in a semi-circle around him, some of them listening intently to the man, while others tapped distractedly at datapads which contained increasingly dour casualty figures and supply reports from the fleet. Picard to ignore the blatant sign of disinterest and forged on, eloquently explaining his crew's situation, the benefits that could be gained by all in a venture back to the wormhole, and the limited resources necessary to facilitate such an expedition.

Mon Mothma's Advisory Council and Picard's small delegation were crammed into a small, sparsely furnished chamber that was serving as Mon Mothma's temporary headquarters. A former computer maintenance shop, it was located just off the make-shift hospital area and the occasional shout of a medic or moan of pain reverberated through the walls as foot traffic rushed by the room's sealed door.

Attempting to keep his presentation brief, Picard succinctly recapped the argument he had just made, and then fell silent, watching those around him carefully, their leader most of all. Along with Mon Mothma, whose faded red hair seemed to have noticeably grayed since they had last met, Princess Leia, Generals Rieekan and Crix Madine, Major Nay'far, a silver-haired female Bothan who was one of the few individuals to have been able to rendezvous with the fleet since the _Republica's_ arrival, and the acting commander of the Alliance starfleet Captain Ajun Halder all sat in uneasy silence, mulling the captain's words. Truul was also in attendance, standing at stiff attention behind Mon Mothma's seat and trying to look as formal as possible.

"Thank you captain," Mon Mothma said at last. "Please, sit." Picard complied, coming to rest in a metal chair alongside Commander Riker, who had so far been silent, allowing the captain to fully exercise his diplomatic skill. Behind them, Data, the Master Chief, and the Arbiter stood against the wall each watching the proceeding with rapt and very personal interest. "I apologize our original hearing of your cause was cut short, but it was unfortunate necessity, as you are well aware I'm sure." The woman's voice was tired and cracked, and heavily tinged with resentment. Picard hoped that the feeling didn't have anything to do with him or his party; such ill feeling would complicate matters.

"It has come to my attention that you and your crew assisted our forces at Sullust with unusual and unexpected valor, and for that I am grateful. Certainly, the _Home One's_ bridge crew, Commander Truul's squad, and perhaps the entire fleet owe you all a debt of gratitude." The captain noticed that Truul was suppressing a satisfied grin behind the Supreme Commander's back, and he offered the man a fractional nod of gratitude, but he couldn't help but notice that Mon Mothma's expression had not brightened at all when she had thanked him, a foreboding sign.

"However…" Picard's pulse quickened. He had known the word was coming.

"However, it would not be wise to devote any resources to your proposed expedition and envoy, especially not now." Nay'far finished Mon Mothma's reluctant verdict. The Bothan was not looking at either of them, but rather seemed absorbed in a statistical analysis of the star fighter complement of the fleet remnant that played across the pad that rested on her palms. "We need all functional personnel and material consolidated here, and diverting any force could be suicidal. My contacts in the Spynet indicate that if the Imperial fleets in this sector continue their current pattern of search and expansion, this facility may be discovered in short order. Frankly, we weren't equipped to handle a full Star Destroyer task force at full strength, and with the fleet in its current state, our chances are significantly lessened."

A single drop of sweat formed on Picard's brow. This was what he had fear might occur, and for all his skill with words and compromise, he didn't know if there was anything he could do if the Rebel leadership was dead set against providing him resources. From the Bothan's absolute tone, it seemed as though she was confident that the rest of the council would agree with her assessment. Perhaps the effort was doomed from the start.

"Major, if I may ask, given our current state, would temporarily losing a single starship, even one of our cruisers, significantly alter out chances if the Empire ever finds us here?" Surprised at the question, the woman looked up from her datapad and into Leia Organa's intense eyes.

"Well… it would all depend upon the circumstances of a potential attack, but that's beside the point. To split up what little we have now could only be destructive in the long run."

"But your discounting the benefit that might be gained by following the captain's suggestion," Leia pressed, edging forward in her seat. "If we can get a diplomatic envoy into Federation territory and broker an arrangement with them, the Alliance could gain something we could never hope to earn in this galaxy, especially now; a truly safe haven, and an established government that could freely lend us aid. Frankly, we need all the assistance we can get now."

The Bothan officer was clearly taken aback by Leia's opposition, and Picard began to hope that his earlier sense of the general feeling of the councilors had been in error. After taking a moment to collect her thoughts, Nay'far put aside the pad and stared directly at the human's intent face. "I had hoped it would not come to this, but there are other reasons why I do not support leading our resources to this fool's errand. This 'wormhole' they discovered sounds far more unstable and unpredictable than the captain would seem to want us to believe. And even if it is stable, how are we to control its path? Even the members in Picard's team here come from several disparate galaxies and time lines. And even if they have found some way to guide whatever ship we send through to the appropriate time and place, what if the wormhole was to collapse or relocate while whatever ambassadors and ships are still on the other side? A brief expedition to meet with this Federation might have been acceptable, but it sounds as though it may well be a one-way trip for whoever accompanies the envoy."

Before Leia or anyone else had time to respond, the Bothan turned her gaze upon Picard. "And forgive me for saying this, but I have my doubts about his true motivations here. If I and those I command were to be trapped in some alien universe with only a slim chance of ever returning home, I would do anything to try and make sure that chance was exploited. Have you ever considered Princess that these men may not be who they claim to be? Oh, I have no doubt they are honorable enough and wouldn't lead us into the hands of a hostile force, their actions have demonstrated that, but this benevolent and wealthy Federation anxious to ally itself with like-minded cultures seems a bit convenient, don't you think?"

Will Riker's jaw dropped in anger, and he began to rise, a forceful objection forming on his lips, but Picard extend a hand to stop his number one, shaking his head significantly. Slowly, the commander sat back down, glaring at the Bothan, who returned the look in kind.

"Though I believe that the Major's suspicions may be overstated, her concerns are legitimate," Mon Mothma asserted calmly, casting a stern glance in the woman's direction. "I am willing to believe you on the Federation's existence, you have earned that much, but the issue of the wormhole's stability is more troublesome. Could you provide us any assurance that you could regulate and maintain the anomaly if you were to return to it?"

"Commander Data and Cortana are continuing to work on ways to effectively control the wormhole from what data we were able to retrieve about it," Picard said, gesturing to the two artificial life forms.

Data took a step forward. "We believe that the phenomenon is controllable, perhaps even to a degree more than adequate to address the concerns Major Nay'far has raised. It is impossible to ascertain the likelihood of success without having direct sensor contact with the anomaly, but Cortana and I have hypothesized that an Alliance starship, with minor modifications to its deflector and EM arrays, could strengthen and direct the course of the wormhole. Then, it is a simple matter of calibrating the arrays to a setting identical to those sensed by the derelict Federation vessel before reversion into this galactic plane."

Picard thanked the android with a silent gesture, and he stepped back against the wall in silence. Despite its long-winded and complex nature, Data's speech seemed to have had the desired effect; Mon Mothma still looked worn and dour, but some of the regret that had creased her face was dissipating. Nay'far still looked incredulous though. "Who would you propose we send on this mission? Can we really afford to lose any of our key personnel at a time like this? And what of the ship they would commandeer?"

"I can solve part of that at least," Captain Halder said. "If we are attacked here in by any force of significant number, it will hardly matter if one of our lighter capital ships is absent. Perhaps the Republica; her drives are in better working condition than either _Arrot Dar_ or the _Redemption_, and she's the only one I'd trust to make it back through the Imperial probing lanes."

"The _Republica_! You would throw away one of our last line star cruisers on this venture?" The Bothan gaped at the acting Admiral in shock.

"Major." Crix Madine intoned significantly. "Calm yourself."

Her hair bristling with anger and embarrassment, Nay'far cast desperate looks at each of the council members, and then offered a small, formal bow to her commanding officer. "I'm sorry General, I overstepped my bounds." With that, the Bothan slumped into her seat, silent, but still glaring resentfully at the others in the chamber.

Clearing her throat, Leia Organa rose slowly. "If you will allow me, I would like to fill the roll of ambassador to the Federation. This is an opportunity that cannot be passed up or thrown away, and I intend to see it through." Mon Mothma looked inquisitively at the young woman, deflated at the prospect of her departure, but after a few moments o thoughts, she nodded in consent. "Alright, I will authorize the expedition. Captain Halder, brief Captain Ryceed of her new mission. As of her return, Leia Organa will have complete authority over the mission and executive authority onboard ship. See to it that the _Republica_ is fully re-supplied and restocked with fightercraft, and ready for departure by tomorrow morning." Halder saluted and exited the chamber for the crowded passage beyond. After a few hushed words with Mon Mothma, Rieekan, Madine, and Nay'far left as well, the latter still carrying an air of defeat and apprehension.

"Major Truul, you have had more experience than any of us with the Captain and his crew. I trust you have no objection to being leading Princess Organa's security detail and serving as an envoy between her and our guests?" Truul grinned and snapped a stiff salute. "It would be my honor sir."

Mon Mothma looked over at Picard. "If the appointment is alright with you of course Captain." Picard smiled and nodded appreciatively. "Of course, I couldn't think of anyone better suited to the job."

As Truul left to authorize his own transfer and assemble a security team and Picard and the others followed, eager to return to the _Republica_ and inform the rest of their group of the outcome of the negotiations, Mon Mothma at last turned back to Leia and took her hands. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? I could find someone else to fill the post."

Leia smiled and shook her head. "No, I want to go. I… well, I've just got a feeling about this."

"A good one I hope."

Leia nodded, but deep down, she wasn't so sure. She still did not know why she had been so compelled to support Picard in his cause. Certainly, it held much promise, and perhaps even salvation for the Rebel cause, but something else was motivating her. Her thoughts drifted back to the night before, to her conversation with the man named Jacen. There had been something about him, and she was strangely driven to ensure his request to help Picard would be fulfilled. _Odd_.

"Well, good luck Leia. The hopes and dreams of our cause, and the lives of every free being in this galaxy may very well rest on your shoulders. May the Force be with you."

"And you as well," Leia replied with sincere conviction. The two women, so alike in cause and history, embraced briefly in friendship, and then they parted, each to strive for the same goal, along very different paths.

There was a flash of transient light, a blur of motion, and then nothingness. The _Republica_ was gone again, one less battle scarred hulk to crowd the supply depot's docking vectors and sap its waning stores, but nevertheless, one person in particular was sad to see it go. Iask, captain of the small transport vessel _Coral Iris_, stared regretfully out at the empty space that had berthed the light cruiser only minutes before. The Mon Calamari had been lost amid the jumble of confused Alliance regulations and disorganized communications while waiting for re-supply, and had only just discovered that the starship that bore his former saviors and allies had arrived at all, and had filed a request to board the ship too late to catch it before an abrupt and unscheduled departure. It was a shame, he reflected as graceful fingers swept over the transport's command console, triggering the main drives to awaken from their diagnostic cycle and prepare for usage. He might never see Riker or Jacen and the others again. In Iask's lonely line of work, one rarely kept friends for long.

After the Mon Cal's astromech R2-E4 rolled onto the small bridge and tootled brightly, which Iask interpreted as an affirmation that the docking ports were sealed and engines in working order, the _Coral Iris_ hummed to life, engaging its maneuvering thrusters and disengaging from narrow supply pylon Iask had managed to commandeer for his temporary use. The drives arrayed along the small starship's tail fin lit up with blue fire and the vessel slowly moved away from the old space station, careful to avoid the traffic still bustling around its main docking ports.

With his ship repaired and restocked as much as it could be with limited resources left at hand, and the _Republica_ gone again on some unknown mission, Iask had no reason to remain with the fleet. Certainly, he had no love for the Empire, but he was no fighter, and his ship would likely not hold up well if thrust into another combat situation. Really, that was all that mattered; the _Coral Iris_ was his life, and he wouldn't put it in harms way again. Remaining with the Alliance definitely contradicted that goal.

"Engaging ion drives," the pilot mumbled to himself, a habit he had picked up after years of lonely hyperspace hauls along the Hydian Way. Interfaced with the main computer, E4 reported that a safe hyperspace course back to Ord Mantell would be plotted in the nav computer by the time he cleared the fleet. Iask would have liked to have returned to his homeworld to recuperate after the harrowing voyage, but from the scattered rumors he had picked up from Alliance crewers and comm officers, the watery planet was not the safest place to go at the moment. Deep inside his gut, a dire concern for his people was hawing away at him; for all he knew, the world was just a hunk of molten slag now. In any event, Ord Mantell, where he got most of his contracts, would be safer for the moment.

The transport's ion drives increased in output, and the ship began to accelerate from the tattered fleet, gliding gracefully between two of the most heavily damaged Alliance capital ships, each covered with construction droids and space-suited engineers. Even as his right eye monitored his flight controls, Iask's left orb took in one of the vessels, and he sighed softly, sickened at the sight of one of the graceful, almost organic starships in such a damaged state. If he were another of his race, the sight might have compelled him to stay, to take up arms against the oppressive Empire, but he was too reclusive and stuck in his ways. All he needed was his vessel, his home. Idealistic crusades were for the young and ship-less.

As the _Coral Iris_ passed out of the outermost reaches of the fleet assemblage, and E4 began feeding him hyperspace coordinates, the ship's sensor suite picked three blips, breaking off from the Alliance fleet to and rapidly gaining on him. Opening his mouth slightly in a Mon Calamari frown, Iask tapped his subspace transceiver.

"Alliance ships, this is the _Coral Iris_. Is there a problem?"

The bridge's comm crackled to life with a human man's voice, unsurprisingly tired and hoarse. "_Coral Iris_, this Lieutenant Celchu of Rogue Squadron. I'm sorry, but you don't have clearance to leave the fleet staging area at this time. Command thinks it's too risky to have too much hyperspace traffic leading away from here. You'll have to disengage and return to the station."

Iask's frown deepened, and his fingers hovered over the acceleration dial, but he did not slow his ship. "There must be some mistake Lieutenant. I cleared this departure with Fleet control only an hour ago." This was true, but as soon as he said it, the captain knew it would hardly matter; with the state of disarray everything was in at the moment, it wouldn't surprise him if the High Council's moratorium on departures hadn't reached the makeshift flight coordination center by the time he had asked for approval.

"That's a negative _Iris_; our orders are straight from the top. Disengage, and head back to the fleet, we'll escort you."

Predictable. Well, there wasn't much he could do now but comply; his ship might be fast for its design, but there were A-Wings among that squad, and he wasn't about to negate their speed advantage with any hostile action. Shaking his large head wearily, Iask grasped the navigation controls, and pulled his craft into a gradual 180 degree turn; at last bring his cockpit back in view of the Fleet and his escorts. The starfighters, two stubby A-Wings and an X-Wing, raced past and came about, forming a loose triangle directly behind the transport. Such a precaution wasn't really necessary, but he supposed that the fighter pilots were always on edge these days, and with good reason.

The four ships made a slow arc back towards the dilapidated fleet, giving Iask time to admire the _Coral Iris' _own acceleration ability; they were millions of kilometers still from the fringes of the fleet. All that could be seen were the dim silhouettes of the large cruisers in the fleet against the starfield, hanging quietly in the emptiness around the old observatory station, the space between them filled with a hundred tiny sparks; fighters and shuttles all. At this distance, beyond sight of the scars and hull breaches, the Rebel force was really quite calming, attractive in its own way.

The Mon Calamari's skull smashed against his control terminal, jarring his mind away from reality and skewing his vision as the world roared and spun around him. Thrown back against his high-back seat by centrifugal force, Iask could barely hear his droid's panicked whistles over the warning clangs and proximity sirens that were resounding around the small chamber. Struggling to regain coherence, Iask grabbed the controls blindly and tried to reach the stabilizer controls, which were blinking furiously. As the ship spun and the inertial compensator's built into the hull attempted unsuccessfully to regulate the sudden pressure, his hands were shoved away violently, but he persisted, at last grasping the controls and counteracting the turbulent dive his vessel had gone into.

The _Iris_ took over the attitude correction, firing emergency barking thrusters automatically to aid its pilot, and finally the spinning stopped. Still light-headed, Iask felt something warm on his bony cheek; greenish blood that was trickling from his jaw onto his simple pilot's tunic.

"E4, are you alright?" he called, still in a daze. A squawking, grumpy reply greeted his ear nodes, but it was a reply nonetheless.

At last clearing the bile that had risen into his throat, the captain started to ascertain what had happened. The incident had knocked out his sensors and shielding systems, but everything else seemed to be in working order. Smacking the transceiver on again, Iask called out. "Lieutenant? Rogue Squadron? Are you alright?"

Through his viewport, the Mon Cal's keen eyes spied the glow of two of the fighters a half a kilometer away, each correcting their own orientations.

"We're operational _Iris_," Celchu confirmed a moment latter, an alarm still noticeable clanging in the background. "Rouge seven, did you get a read on…"

"Emperor's Black Bones!"

With that exclamation, the comm line went silent, leaving Iask bewildered by the sudden exclamation of shock. Then, as his sensors began to come back online, his own proximity detector began to shine in warning, and he hurriedly glanced at his transponder display to see the source of the disturbance. A tiny Imperial emblem glowed red on the display.

Something visible out of his viewport drew Iask's attention away from the ominous sensor indicator. Directly above his small vessel, no more than a few dozen ship lengths away stretched the massive triangular belly of an Imperial-Class Star Destroyer, studded with turbolasers and ion cannons of all classes. The mighty warship's huge bank of Ion drives belched a cone of energy into the blackness that tore at cosmos; Iask absently reflected that he must have been on the fringe of the ship's drive wash. A few degrees of orientation starboard and the transport would have been atomized by the pulsing engines.

More tiny insignias began to appear on his display, each accompanied by a class descriptor. Star Destroyers, anti-fighter Lancer frigates, Interdictors, Carracks, communications vessels, and TIE Fighters. Hundreds of TIE Fighters.

Horrified attention split between the readout and the real force emerging silently from hyperspace in an entrapping circle around the ragtag Alliance fleet, Iask barely noticed as his comm crackled to life again.

"All Rebel vessels, this is the Imperial Star Destroyer _Abolition_. You will stand down and surrender you fleet immediately. This is your only warning. Comply, or be annihilated."

A thousand light-years away, Jacen Solo stared into the swirling blackness of hyperspace. Seated cross-legged on his small bunk, he allowed the flow beyond his viewport to lull him into a meditative state, centering his own thoughts and easing the tempest of uncertainty that still raged within.

_There is no emotion; there is peace.  
There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.  
There is no passion; there is serenity.  
There is no death; there is the Force._

What will be will be. So is the way of the Force.


	20. Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Eight

Almost time now. Less than an hour more and he would at last be off this blasted ship and safely in Imperial hands again. So he longed to be away from the headache inducing curves of the Mon Calamari vessel, and the multitude of traitorous, anarchist scum that inhabited it. Just a little while longer, he could wait. Besides, there was still one thing left to de done before he could arrange for departure. It would be a delicate and crucial procedure, but a necessary one; nothing he hadn't done a dozen times before on this damnable assignment.

With practiced ease and familiarity, only imperceptibly tinged by nervousness he thought, the man walked calmly down the long bright hallways that lead to his destination, paying only as much attention as was necessary to those who he passed. _Don't give them any reason to look at you, and they won't_. Unconsciously, he pressed the plain carrying case he held at his side closer, making sure it would not be jostled by the oblivious passersby.

The man made his way quickly down the narrow passage, and entered a turbo shaft, which delievered him to deck seven, in a section very near the ship's center. Emboldened by the decrease in foot traffic farther away from the crew sections, his footfalls quickened and became more definite, and rounding a corner, his objective was brought into view. _At last, almost there._

He noted a small group of armed Alliance marines, absorbed in a loud conversation on some mundane topic, were approaching down a side passage. The man realized that the group would cross paths with him just before he could reach his objective. _Stay calm; there is no reason for any of them to even notice you. Just don't run or break stride._ A moment later, they were arms length apart, the soldiers laughing uproariously at some joke one of their fellows had just told. As they walked past, one turned her gaze towards him, and the man almost froze in fear, but she simply offered a small gesture of greeting and sped away with the rest of her comrades. The man wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but that would look suspicious right there in the hall. Besides, his goal was mere footsteps away.

A pair of thin doors slid open, revealing a small, empty room, its walls lined with computer screens and blinking displays. An energy monitoring room, just off Main Engineering and the hypermatter reactor that drove the starship; it would suite his purposes perfectly. Sparing what he hoped looked like an innocuous glance back at the passageway, the man slipped inside, waited for the doors to close behind him, and then set to work. Pausing only to lock the door, the man moved over to the nearest computer terminal and placed his carrying case on top of it. Seating himself on the terminal's adjoining bench, the man immediately set to work, energizing the computer interface and imputing a variety of pass codes.

Finding the security measures easily passable with the codes and rank clearance he had accumulated, the infiltrator located and drew up the required section of the ship's computer network. A few more key strokes brought him to a specific subsystem, not particularly vital, but perfectly suited to his goal. Taking in a deep breath to try and steady his trembling hands, the man began to input one strand of memorized code after another, each a simply logarithmic pattern. Apart, they were harmless, static in the network, but if entered in just the right order they could dramatically impact the subsystem he was targeting.

"Halt."

The word boomed into the man's thoughts, causing them to briefly degenerate into a state of chaos and confusion. The lapse was brief, and within milliseconds, his training kicked in. _He's too close. Start the innocent routine. _

Allowing his right hand to tap a few more keys, an action that yielded an expected and satisfying beep from the computer, the man spun around on his seat, his expression one of mild surprise. Before he could utter a single word though, a huge hand reached down and latched onto the fabric of his tunic and then wrenched upward, dragging him helpless into the air.

A blasted of hot, moist air hit him in the face and he sputtered, disoriented by the violent action. A frightening visage hovered directly before his eyes; four stiff, gray mandibles covered in sharp teeth, covering a fleshy, gaping mouth. Above the creature's formidable jaws two small, narrowed eyes glared into his own, unblinking.

"Wha...what is the meaning of this?"

"Do not bandy words with me, human. I want to know what you were doing with that computer. Where is the device?"

Gulping as the hems of his uniform began to etch into his back, the man tried to think of some warning or explanation that would convince this creature to release him. Then all he would need was to get to the case…

Turning his gaze away from the human, the assailant looked over the terminal that he had been using, and the small container on top of it caught his eye. "What is that? Tell me."

Desperate for a way out, the man allowed his own fear, amplified for effect, to filter into his voice. "I'm sorry sir, there seems to have been some sort of understanding. I was just performing some routine system checks for my superiors. I was certain that I followed all the proper procedures logging in and..."

"The case," the alien repeated, his voice deep and menacing.

Behind them, the click of several boots impacting the deck plating diverted the man's attention the doorway. Several armed marines, the very ones he had passed in the hallway, were quickly filing into the room, their blaster pistols drawn. Behind them, the door's control was sparking profusely; the alien must have broken the hall-side interface to gain entry.

"Drop him and back against that wall!" one of them, a dark-skinned man without his blast helmet on ordered, his side arm pointing squarely at the assailant's back. The other soldiers fanned out into the room, keeping their weapons trained on the tall, gray-skinned alien. Growling in contempt, he loosened his grip and the man tumbled to the floor, but did not move away.

"Against the wall with your hands up!" the marine ordered again, emphasizing his point with a flick of his pistol.

This time the alien moved, not towards the wall, but instead towards the soldier, his hands falling to his sides. Easily two feet shorter than the being, the marine also took a step back, intimidated by the mountain of toned sinew and reflective armor plating. With the attacker distracted, one of the other soldiers grabbed the infiltrator and pulled him into the protection provided by the circle of marines. "Are you all right, sir?" one of them, the woman from before, asked, her weapon still pointed at the alien. Already factoring this unexpected circumstance into his plans, the man nodded, rising to his feet.

"Thanks. I'm not sure what happened. It just attacked."

One of the other soldiers leaned in close to their commander's ear and whispered something urgently. Nodding, he turned his attention back to the alien, who stood in the center of the room staring back at him. "You're the Arbiter, right? One of those visitors everyone was talking about?"

The alien made no motion of dissent.

"Mind explaining what you were doing then? You might have some diplomatic leeway from the Council, but that doesn't mean you can smash entry locks and assault our officers without a very good reason."

After glaring for a moment longer, the Arbiter flexed his mandibles in irritation. "There is no time for this. That man is a traitor, an infiltrator sent here by your enemies. He plans on disabling or destroying this vessel."

The marine sergeant looked incredulous, and cast a skeptical glance at the frazzled man, dressed in the uniform of a Lieutenant. "Him? Lt. Flitch, correct? One of Major Truul's men."

The man nodded in recognition, keeping a wary eye on the Arbiter, who had turned his gaze back on him. "Yes, that's right. I was just in here looking for the officer on duty. Major Truul wanted to know about an energy sub-system in one of men's duty areas, and since I have the clearance to check from here, I did so. Then he attacked me, for no reason I can think of."

The Arbiter growled darkly. "You're lying. If you are performing a simple network search, what do you need with that case?" He indicated to the inconspicuous, flexiplast container with a jerk of his long neck.

The sergeant frowned. "Dillik, bring me that." The marine, a tall Mon Calamari, edged around the Arbiter and grabbed the case with his free hand. No one noticed Flitch sway slightly as the soldier picked up the container.

"What's going one here?"

Standing in the hallway beyond the small room was Major Truul himself, flanked by a pale-skinned humanoid and a towering, battle-armored man, both Flitch instantly recognized as being other 'visitors', as the soldier had referred to them. His pulse quickened and he began to edge away from the marines who currently were surrounding him.

The marine sergeant offered a nod in salute, keeping his weapon fixed on the Arbiter. "Sir. This _Arbiter_ was just apprehended assaulting your one of your Lieutenants. He claims that Lt. Flitch is an Imperial infiltrator."

The gruff man's eyes widened in shock and he looked from the alien to his man in alarm and confusion, then focusing back on the Arbiter. "I've fought alongside ya before, and I'm inclined to trust your judgment, but you'd better have some goof proof that my man is a traitor. I don't take kindly to unprovoked assaults on the officers under me."

"I've been watching him for days. Flitch has entered several sensitive areas both on this ship and the Alliance supply station to interfaced with their computer systems. Have you not noticed any suspicious behavior on his part?"

Truul frowned, stroking his stubbly chin. "Nothing comes to mind. And I ordered him to gain access the supply station's computer. I needed locate a few officers in fleet before we left again." He sighed, shaking his head. "Really, if that's all you got, I think you might be overreacting. Not surprising really, considering all we've been though lately."

The sergeant nodded towards the Mon Cal soldier. "Check the case." Holstering his sidearm, the man opened the container's electrical clamp and quickly flipped through the contents. "There's not much in here, sir. Just a few datapads, some flimsies, and a vox recorder."

"All things I need for my regular work," Flitch said sourly, now standing a few steps away from the marine line, back next to his computer terminal. "I intended on working on logging and finalizing the new transfers to Major Truul's guard unit in my quarters after I was finished here."

"I did ask him to do that, and I did need him to talk to Ensign Teeri about the power substation in my soldier's barracks," Truul confirmed, and then noticed that the officer how normally operated the power station was not present. "Where is Teeri anyhow?"

"I'm not sure, sir. He wasn't here when I arrived."

The Arbiter's eyes narrowed.

"Anyways, I think this may have all been a misunderstanding. Unless, of course, you have some other evidence," Truul's tone was skeptical.

"Yes, I would like to know if you have any other grievances with me so that I might clear them up now. Forgive me for saying so, but I am far to busy to be assaulted on duty again today."

The Arbiter issued another low snarl, but stopped suddenly, fixated on Flitch's right hand, which now hovered over the command board, index finger close to the glowing 'execute' key.

"Well?"

Balling his huge hands into fists, the Elite glared into Flitch's eyes, which stared back in mocking victory. Turning away suddenly, the Arbiter ducked down and marched toward the exit, the sergeant and his troops making way for the fuming warrior by Truul's command.

"Sergeant, I want you and your troops to escort him to his quarters and see that he stays there for a few hours. Needs time to cool down."

"What if he resists?"

"Make sure that he doesn't have to," the Major said significantly. "I don't want to have to deal with an internal confrontation with one of my charges on this mission, especially not so early on."

The marines filed off down the hall after the towering alien, Dillik pausing to hand Flitch back his case. With them gone, Truul turned to Lt. Commander Data and the Master Chief, who had watched the exchange in silence. "I've got to have a word with Flitch. Sit tight, and we can continue our conversation in a moment."

When the major had disappeared into the room and used the interior control to close the door behind him, Cortana spoke up, whispering to the Chief through his helmet's interior comm.

"He gets more and more suspicious by the hour, doesn't he?"

"Do you think he's a threat to the mission?"

"I still don't want to jump to any conclusions… but it's starting to seem more and more likely. He is an Elite after all, and it's possible that he's never really been on our side at all."

"It appears I have found something." The Master Chief turned to see Data crouched on the deck, picking something off the metal floor delicately.

"What is it?" the Chief asked over the open comm.

"I noticed the Arbiter surreptitiously drop this object in the hallway before he departed. He may have intended for us to locate it." The android walked back over to the Chief and held the thing up; a tiny, square chip studded with regular golden nods. "I believe it is a memory storage device of some kind, most likely corresponding to the technology employed by the Alliance or Empire."

"But why would he leave it for us, whatever it is?" Cortana asked, using the sensors built into the Spartan's suit to inspect the chip more closely.

Before Data had time to stipulate a hypothesis however, a voice rang out over the ship's intercom. "Counselor Organa and all ambassadors to the command bridge. Hyperspace emersion in ten minutes."

"Ambassadors? Well, I suppose they had to give us a tag of some sort eventually. It's better than 'the visitors' at least," Cortana commented, still inspecting the small device.

Major Truul emerged from the power monitoring room and rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. "Well, it's about time. I suppose I should be getting you all to the bridge."

The human started off down the main hall and the others followed, but they hung back, still inspecting the chip.

"Perhaps you can access whatever's inside," Data suggested.

"I'm still not too familiar with all of their technology, but I ought to be able to handle a simple record file. Chief, plug that into the scanning slot above my own matrix."

Carefully, the Spartan took the chip into his own gauntleted fingers, but hesitated before placing in the slot that hidden on the left side of his helmet. "Are you sure we want this in our heads? We don't know what he could have put on it."

Cortana let out a little laugh. "Please, I've dealt with Covenant viruses before. At the most, you'll feel a slight burning sensation in the back of your head as I reduce any intruder into binary code segments."

"How reassuring."

"What about Ysanne Issard?" Gam Rothwall suggested, placing his glass of fine Muun port gently on the table. "She has always seemed quite eager for ways she can elevate her status."

Ars Dagnor, seated next to Gam at the large dining table, tapped his lips with a silken napkin and leaned back in his luxurious chair, shaking his head slowly. "It's too great a risk. She certainly would be willing to hear us out, especially if some reward was offered up front, but as you say, she craves power too much to be trusted. If Vader ever found out, she could easily be turned against us by a generous counter-offer. Our new eminence (the word rolled off his tongue with obvious contempt) may be a brute, but he isn't stupid, and his skill with the Force will make stealing away high-ranking officials difficult."

Nodding in agreement, Rothwall sighed, and then began poking at the succulent cut of meat that had been prepared for him, deep in thought. He and Dagnor, as well as Janus Greejatus and Hixa Torenvom were seated in a spacious private dining room, located on the top floor of Menarai, the most exclusive restaurant in the Imperial Center. The circular chamber sported a 240 degree view of the city below, skyscrapers and traffic lanes lit brightly against the night sky as they spread out in all directions. Fixed atop Monument Park, the only exposed mountain peak left on the entire planet, the restaurant sported the finest views anywhere in the galactic core. That, and it's isolation from the unworthy masses, made it a favored place of relaxation and indulgence among the Coruscanti elite.

The only remaining member of the Ruling Council not present, Kren Blista-Vance, had protested against meeting in such a public venue, but Dagnor, defacto leader of the group, had ignored the concern. His private chamber there was one of the most secure places on the planet, fitted with security measurers even the late Black Sun entrepreneur and crime lord Prince Xizor could not buy. Besides, he had noted, it would be better for them to be seen in public, unafraid of Vader's rule, before any coup was staged. The people would hardly look up to those they perceived as cowards.

"Have you tried to Crueya yet?" Hixa Torenvom asked, helping himself to a platter of rare Kaminoan shellfish, one of the many delicacies that were heaped unto beautiful obsidian plates and containers.

Ars stroked his smooth chin reflectively. "I have. He seemed quite open to the idea of aiding us, and COMPNOR's support would certainly go a long way in solidifying our control." COMPNOR, under Lord Crueya Vandron, was the agency that supervised the massive bureaucracy galactic government needed to remain effective, and was a key intelligence and logistics resource for every Imperial politician, Moff, and Admiral. "However, both he and I share the concern that open dissent from such a significant and core-ward agency would be sure to quickly be noticed and investigated by Vader and those loyal to him. For now, the support he can provide is strictly non-material."

"I do wish to alert you all to one significant success though. Only hours ago, I was able to secure the support Grand Admiral Grazre."

"Totl Grazre! The commander of the Core defense fleet?" Rothwall nearly knocked over his glass of pale liquid as he stood in surprise.

Ars Dagnor grinned. "We all knew that I had connections. I suppose I must have simply neglected to tell you all about this one."

Rothwall was grinning now too. "I can just imagine Vader's mood when he discovers half a dozen destroyers drawing a firing solution on his shuttle." He swept the glass off the table once more, spilling some of its contents on the dark, velvety tablecloth. "A toast! To the resurrection of the old Empire, and our new place in it!"

"Indeed, indeed," Janus Greejatus wheezed in agreement, taking up his own challis.

"Now, now, the battle is not yet won… but I suppose libation of victory now could do nothing to hurt us."

The four conspirators raised their glasses and drained them, backlit by passing traffic and floodlights from the park below.

As a humanoid serves droid hummed around the table, refilling each of their drinks, the private chamber's door comm chimed, and a pair of armored stormtroopers entered, bowing slightly before taking up places on either side of the door. A moment later, a tall, thin man entered, dressed in a sweeping, black robe. Though he was unusually pale, his gaunt features were easily recognizable.

"Ah, Kren, I am glad to see you have come," Ars Dagnor said smoothly, opening his arms in greeting. "We had thought you were too paranoid to join us here. I am glad to have been mistaken."

He motioned to the server droid. "Coruscanti testril I think, the house's finest. A full bottle for our honored friend." As the droid hurried over to a wall-mounted dispensing slot, Blista-Vance stepped away from the door, still silent, and another figure entered. All four seated men stopped in their merriment to inspect the newcomer.

She was tall and slim, curved in a way that made females of her species renown galaxy-wide. The Twi'lek's long lekku, a brilliant blue like the rest of her well formed body, were draped seductively down her front, trembling only slightly as she walked. She wore silky dress, similar in color to Blista-Vance's own robe; so much fabric was absent from the chest and waist areas that a few of the men in attendance wondered secretly if the garment was held up by a repulsor hidden somewhere on her form. A long, black glove covered her right arm, drawn up nearly to her exposed shoulder. The woman bore a mild, submissive smile on her face, and flowed gracefully to Kren's side, placing an arm around his waist.

The older man said nothing, instead walking to a vacant chair and draining a goblet of some green liquor before sitting.

Ars raised an eyebrow. "A new acquisition? I suppose that might explain why you were late."

Greejatus chuckled, his beady eyes still probing the beautiful Twi'lek.

"Her name is Aayla," Kren said simply, filling his glass again with intoxicating liquid. "Pay her no mind."

Ars spared another glance at the striking specimen, and then turned his attention back on the final Council member. "So, have you done as I asked?"

Not bothering to even look up from his drink, the pale man nodded. "Jerjerrod has informed me that the construction effort around the Sanctuary Moon is ongoing, and at the current rate of progress, it will be completed in less than three months. The test firing on a local asteroid was successful, but its primary weapon still has to be calibrated before it is fully operational."

Ars took a bite out a small wedge of fruit. "Excellent. By the time the weapon is completed, our control of the galaxy should be well established. With battle station like that under our command, no upstart admiral or Sith Lord will ever challenge the rightful heirs of the new order ever again."

Standing just behind Kren's chair, the Twi'lek allowed her smile to broaden. Blista-Vance gulped down another glass and leaned back in his chair, his hands noticeably trembling.

"Are you alright?" Hixa asked, staring at the gaunt man over a plate of fluffy pastries.

Before he could respond though, the Twi'lek behind him shifted position, bringing her arms down to her sides. "Personally, I'd be more concerned about myself than him. Of course, in a few moments, I suppose it won't make much of a difference."

Hixa sputtered, dropping the utensil he was holding in alarm. "What did she…"

"Thank you Kren, you've been most helpful. Unfortunately, Lord Vader seems to dislike traitors intensely, and I'm afraid we're going to have to go back on our little bargain." The woman's voice was so soft that the others around the table had to lean closer to hear clearly, but a sort of dark pleasure was quite evident in it.

Kren Blista-Vance shook his head slowly and gritted his teeth, closing his eyes as he did so. "Sithspit."

A beam of blue light erupted through the chair's back and impaled the old man's heart, incinerating it instantly. A blast of air and vaporized blood escaped his lips and his head lolled on its shoulders, his face a mask of resigned defeat.

The other at the table, however, did not that the incident so well. Hixa fell backwards out of his chair, food and drink spilling onto his round belly as he tried to scramble away, and the other three shot up from their places, momentarily unsure what to do, Kren's death still not registering in their stunned brains. Aayla did not wait for the moment to sink in though, instead bringing her lightsaber clear up through the top of the chair, nearly decapitating the deceased Councilor. She then flipped sideways with superhuman speed and agility, landing easily on her feet a few meters way, where Hixa Torenvom was trying to drag his body away across the richly-carpeted floor. The woman grinned down him, her saber humming gently as she held it less than a meter above his heaving chest.

"W…" Before the sputtering man could even finish a single word, the blade sang, neatly removing the man's head from its confining neck without even singeing the carpet.

By now, both Greejatus and Rothwall had uncovered holdout blasters from their cloaks and were backing toward the nearest window, Ars hunched between them, he too fumbling for a weapon hidden in his robes. Rothwall fired three shots at Aayla as she brought her weapon up from the killing stroke, but before he had even seen the red bolts cross the room, they scattered away from the assassin in all directions, two scorching the ceiling and the third impacting a vase of white flowers, which exploded spectacularly. Gaping, Rothwall pulled the trigger again, and the Twi'lek almost lazily moved her weapon to intercept the incinerating bolt. It hit the blue blade and recoiled back, directly into the Councilor's open mouth. Gore and burned bone splashed against the expansive windows as the smoking corpse fell to the floor.

By this time, Ars Dagnor had located his own weapon, a contraband and especially nasty make of disruptor pistol, and without even bothering to glance at his fallen conspirator's body, opened up. The first green silver pulse missed Aayla entirely, smashing an entire ten meter pane of glass and impacting the security shield in place outside, which rippled and glowed as it diffused the energy. The next shot was better aimed, but it only served to incinerate carpeting and atomize a large chunk of the metal floor beneath, as Aayla was already in the air again, leaping over the wide dining table with ease.

Sending a shot from Janus into the floor harmlessly even before she had reached the ground again, the Twi'lek spun, angling her weapon so it would decapitate Greejatus in a single blow. Before she could make contact though, the chamber's lone door slid open and several stormtroopers rushed in, E-11 blaster rifles already raised. Without even looking in their direction, Aayla altered her stance mid-strike and threw her saber sideways rather than following through. The twirling sword halved the first two soldiers before they had even located the source of the disturbance and sliced the gun arm off a third.

Years of discipline allowing them to ignore the gruesome deaths of their comrades, the other three troopers opened fire, pulsing a dozen shots at Aayla in under two seconds. Temporarily without her weapon, which was still twirling through the air, she was forced to leap away from her prey, using the dining table as cover. Huge chunks of hand-carved wood combusted under the sustained Imperial firepower, but what was left of the object heaved suddenly into the air, confusing the soldiers and making their shots erratic. Before they could correct for the sudden change in topography however, the heavy fixture rocketed towards them, crushing one of the troopers against the wall with a sickening thud.

The remaining two rolled sideways avoid the missile and reestablish visual contact with their target, but they found she was already between them, her glowing weapon back in hand. With two deft strokes, she cut both troopers in two.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Ars and Janus were rushing for a small computer console set into one of the benches that lined the curving wall. One of the dead soldier's blasters flew into her free hand, and barely stopping to aim, she pulled the trigger. A fireball engulfed Janus Greejatus' back and he screamed, falling to the floor with a cloud of ash and blistering smoke issuing from the deadly wound.

Ars tumbled to the floor, thrown off balance by the near hit, and before he could even raise his head, the sound of Aayla's breath, only slightly labored from the exertion, filtered into his ears. He felt warm fingers wrap around his chin and jerk it up, bringing the woman's beautiful face into view, no more than a hand length away from his own. The same half grin still graced her lips, and a patch of residue on her left cheek, blood spray, only served to accentuate her striking features. Ars attempted to bring his blaster to her stomach, but it flew out of his hands and clattered uselessly onto the floor, out of reach.

"If you're going to kill me, do it now," he spat, trying to retain some sense of control.

"It is not her place to kill you."

Aayla's saber snapped off and she let go off Dagnor's head, leaving him to fall back to the ground as she stood and moved to the side, revealing the doorway at the far side of the room and the figure that now filled it.

"Vader," Ars managed, hefting himself onto his knees.

The Dark Lord of the Sith paced across the room, ignoring the bodies strewn around him and the stench of cauterized flesh that filled the air. When he reached Aayla, who had her head bowed in respect, he paused, looking her over reflectively. "You have done well, my apprentice."

"They were traitors and fools, my lord. I had no qualm about culling them from your Empire."

Darth Vader turned his focus now to Ars Dagnor, who was slowly rising onto his haunches.

"I had always suspected you and your allies would need to be disposed of. You were always too close to the Emperor."

To Aayla's surprise, the sniveling little man actually began to laugh. A weak, hacking rasp, but a laugh nonetheless. "Didn't have the stomach to do it yourself though, did you Vader? I can tell, killing the Emperor took the nerve out of you. He always was the true power, the one who gave you your ability and will, and without him, your nothing but a feeble man in a life support suit, trying to fill a far more worthy being's place."

Vader's right hand shot out from under his cape and gloved fingers wrapped around Dagnor's neck, hauling him into the air. Gasping for air, the man clawed uselessly at the iron grip as Vader pulled him close to his nightmare mask. "Where is the rest of the Privy Council? Where is Sate Pestage?"

Ars mouthed something desperately, saliva bubbling from his mouth as he tried in vain to suck oxygen into his quickly starving lungs. Vader's grip tightened and the helpless man began to squirm even more violently, kicking Vader's armored torso weakly. After a few more long seconds, the Sith lord relaxed his grip, and Ars fell backwards, hitting his head hard against the curved window that overlooked the vast city below.

"You have but this one opportunity," Vader said darkly, looking down on the gasping creature. "Reveal the location of the rest of the Council, or I will tear the information from your mind."

Ars Dagnor slid down the window, coming to rest on the carpeted floor, his limbs splayed out uselessly on the sill and the bench next to him. "Pestage…"

Vader looked down upon the pitiful creature, seemingly uncaring as to the course by which he would receive the required data.

"Pestage," Ars repeated, pausing to cough up a large clot of blood. "Pestage may have been a coward…" He paused, gasping for breath, and then stared up at Vader's mask. "But you are a fool!"

Right arm draped against the low bench, Ars was in reach of the console he had ran for a minute before. A single finger punched at one of the keys, and the object began to beep shrilly. Even before the sound met the beaten Councilor's ears though, Vader had turned away, his Force-aided senses alerting him to a sudden danger. Ars Dagnor's eyes widened as the sound cut off, and his body disappeared in a ball of light and fire. A resounding explosion rocked the room, and indeed the entire facility, knocking over food trays and sending the clientele diving under their tables and booths.

Vader and his young servant had not been in the radius of the blast however. Aayla Secura, disoriented by the explosion, wiped soot from her eyes and discovered she was on the other side of the room, looking at Darth Vader's metallic chest plate. He had saved her from the Councilor's last bit of venom, a bomb that was meant to ensure that whoever was capable of bringing down the great Ars Dagnor would not last to relish his victory. Obviously, the device's designers had not anticipated that the intended target would be a Sith.

"Thank you, my lord," she managed, regaining her balance. "I am not worthy of your action. It was my carelessness that allowed him to even reach that device. You should have left…"

A sudden wave of annoyance from the cyborg told Aayla it would be best if she became silent. She stepped away and glanced over at what had once been Dagnor's dining chamber. The suicide explosive had carved a very large hole out of the chamber, and much of it was exposed to the open air. The rest of the room had been shredded by shrapnel from the blast; it was only Vader's armored suit and his adeptness with the Force that had saved her from ending up like the serving droid which lay next to her, decapitated and oozing dark coolant from every joint.

Turning her attention back to Darth Vader, Aayla noticed that he was staring up into the sky through one of the shattered windows, his hands folded in front of him.

"My lord?"

"Something is occurring, something of great importance."

The woman stared quizzically at her master as he continued to probe the heavens, as is if searching for a star that was beyond his ability to perceive. Though his mental barriers were as effective as always, she could sense could sense some conflict in him, but on what she could not tell. At last, he turned towards her, his rhythmic breathing echoing eerily in the blasted shell of a room.

"I am needed elsewhere. Come."

With that, he stalked past her and exited the chamber, where his personal squad of storm troopers waited, clearing bodies out of the passageway and sealing the area off against further intrusion. Aayla did not follow immediately, instead looking up into the hazy darkness, searching for any sign of what her master had sensed. She found nothing amiss. It was of little importance though; her master had set a course, and she would follow, wherever they ended up.

By the time Truul, Data, and the Chief reached the command bridge, Leia Organa, her protocol droid, and most of the remaining members of the Enterprise's crew were already assembled quietly watching the main viewport from the lower level of the chamber. Captain Ryceed seemed to be trying to ignore them, and was engaged in a whispered conversation with her XO.

"Data," Commander Riker said in greeting as the three latecomers joined the group. When the android had come a little closer, the commander leaned in close and whispered into his ear. "Are your calculations finished?"

Noting the human's conspiratorial tone, Data lowered his own voice. "Yes Commander. Cortana and I believe that we should be able to manipulate the wormhole as soon as we arrive. I will, however, require direct access to the ship's deflector, transmission, and tractor beam controls."

Riker nodded. "The captain and Geordi have already worked something out with Ryceed. There's a station prepared for you over there." He indicated to a large bank of control consoles, at which the dark-skinned engineer and a pair of Alliance technicians were already at work.

"I'd better interface directly with the main computer system," Cortana, who had evidently been listening in on their conversation, said, and then used the transmitter built into the Chief's armor to beam her consciousness into ship itself.

"Ready to disengage hyperdrive," a helmsman called, and all conversation on the deck ceased.

"Do it," Captain Ryceed ordered, settling into her command chair. She had no particular desire to come back to the desolate system they were approaching, but she would be damned if her apprehension interfered with her composure.

In a surge of pseudo motion, the light cruiser spat from the hyperspace tachyon realm and into realspace, an endless void only broken by system's distant star, a glowing ember which hung high above their plane of entry. Except, this void was not quite as empty as they had left it.

"I'm picking up Imperial warships to aft!" one of the bridge officers yelled, alarmed and desperately rechecking is original readings. Ryceed gritted her teeth and slammed a fist onto her chair control pad.

"Battle stations! Deflectors to maximum, double aft!"

Mere seconds later, a shockwave blasted through the bridge and warning klaxons began to blare plaintively.

"One of their tracking shots, we were able to get deflectors up in time. No damage."

Ryceed tapped a few commands into her panel, and swiveled her seat towards the chamber's main holographic display. "Get me a read on those ships now!" The space in front of her flickered to life with multicolored flecks of light, which rapidly coalesced into four distinctive forms; an Imperial-class Star Destroyer flanked by a smaller Victory-class and a pair of Lancer frigates. As she looked on, dozens of new contacts, TIE fighters and gunboats, began to register, pouring out of the two larger ship's holds.

"Open fire, all rear batteries! Target the forward Lancer."

As comm officers rushed to relay the order and the _Republica's_ Chief weapons control officer began to coordinate the jets of deadly energy that began to pulse from the cruiser's hull, another turbolaser blast rocked the ship, nearly knocking Leia Organa over as she climbed the short stairway to the main command area.

"How did they now we would be here?" she asked breathlessly.

"Not a clue. Why don't you try asking your friends down there?" Ryceed said hurriedly, and then turned her attention back to the hologram, which was showing the first wave of fighters wash up against the cruiser's point defense guns.

Leia glanced down at Captain Picard and his officers, who were watching the battle unfold on various viewscreens and tactical display with concern. The situation did seem awfully suspicious. But no, she disregarded the thought almost immediately. She had a feeling about these people, they wouldn't have turned the fate of the Alliance and their own hopes at returning home over to the Empire. Still, it seemed very unlikely that the Imperials could have detected or anticipated them like this without some assistance…

"Captain, fighter squadrons are standing by. Do I give the launch order?"

Ryceed considered Commander Gavplek's question. Under more even circumstances, such an action would be a given; allowing TIE fighters to harass the ship unopposed would be suicidal, but they were vastly out numbered now, and given her previous experience with the unstable gravitic nature of this star system, it was likely her only avenue of escape was cut off. Her only normal avenue at least.

She put a hand, telling her XO to delay the question for a moment, and stood. "Captain Picard."

The bald man looked up at her, his face drawn with concern.

"Have your men finalized the wormhole procedure?"

Riker gave a nod in the affirmative when Picard looked in his direction. "It's ready. But can your ship make it to the coordinates before they catch up to us?"

Ryceed smiled proudly. "Captain, you haven't seen half of what my ship and her crew can do." She caught Gavplek's attention again. "Tell the squadron leaders to stay put. Were heading for the wormhole. Make sure we get there in one piece." Though he was deeply disturbed by the overwhelming numbers of the enemy, Gavplek had been in enough engagements to know that when she had an objective selected, there was no force, Imperial or otherwise, that could stand in her way. He offered a quick salute, and then turned to the rest of the crew, who were busy coordinating fire and compiling damage estimates from the last turbolaser blast that had struck the ship.

"Were making a straight burn for the wormhole. Helm, increase power to the main drives, even if you have to siphon off energy from the weapons, but keep the deflectors at optimal. Fire control, focus on laying down a flak perimeter around our rear quadrant. The Imperials know we can't do any real damage to them, and there's no point in trying, but let them know that if they get to close, their ship's are going to lose a few of those pretty points."

A luck series of shots from the _Republica's_ rear turbolaser grid breached the shields of the forward most frigate, send gouts of flame roaring across it port side and sending it on a down spin, out of formation. The small victory seemed to encourage the Alliance crew, but the other three warships pressed forward, intensifying their own firepower to make up for the damaged pursuer.

"I'm locking the estimated coordinates of the wormhole into the navigational computer," Cortana, who had appeared above the secondary hologram tub, reported easily. The Mon Cal cruiser's ion drives flared as terawatts of reserve power poured into them, and the sleek ship rapidly began to put distance between itself and the encroaching strike force. The three capital ships that still remained in the battle quickly compensated, dumping their own reserves into vast, coruscating engines, and the gap began to close again. The void between the ships was filled with streams of green and red bolts with enough power to devastate small cities, with squadrons of TIEs flitting around volleys and continually igniting the Republica's weakening deflector screens with pinpricks of fire.

At Data's jury-rigged command station, Geordi La'Forge nervously checked the power readings from the core. "The program is ready, but if this rate of power consumption keeps up, we might not have enough juice left to maintain the correct modulation in the deflector network."

"We should reach the wormhole in two minutes, thirty one seconds," Data noted, taking in several tactical and energy displays at once. "Assuming there is not an exponential increase in Imperial firepower within that period, there will be enough power left to perform a directed transatlantic transference."

"I hope your right." The engineer had no wish to return to a holding cell or be vaporized by the Imperial assault, but exploding in the wormhole due to uncontrollable feedback overload was equally as undesirable.

As the rest of the Federation officers watched the running battle with silent apprehension, a sudden thought struck Picard. If Data was right, that wormhole was a pathway directly into Federation territory. If the Empire knew about such a conduit, they might be able to send ships through as well, and Picard had seen just what the warships of the galaxy could do.

He made is way quickly over to the Data and looked at the information flashing across his screen. It was largely gibberish to human eyes, the android had programmed his station to transmit at a rate many times its normal rate, but the captain did notice a marked increase in the number of figures that appeared on the display when a sensor officer reported that the anomaly was within active scanning range. He hoped the increase was a good thing.

"Is there a problem, Captain?" Geordi asked, noticing his superior's presence.

"I'm not entirely certain. Tell me, do you know if more than one ship at a time can travel through the wormhole?"

Data stopped scanning the screen for a moment, focusing his positronic brain on the quandary. "If you are referring to the pursuing Imperial starships, than I believe that it would be impossible for them to enter the anomaly after us without knowing its exact dimensions or how we were able to manipulate it. It is unknown if they are even aware of its existence."

"So they couldn't simply follow us through?"

"I do not believe so. Judging by the data that is current known about the wormhole, it appears to latch on individually to each object that enters it. Without employing the deflector control Cortana and I have postulated will guide a ship to the correct spatial and dimensional coordinates, any pursuing starship would be deposited randomly at some other entry point, as the _Enterprise_ was, or destroyed outright by the feedback present during the transit period."

Picard nodded and glanced back at the tactical hologram, which showed the distance between the _Republica_ and her assailants was continuing to diminish. "I suppose we have no safer course of action."

Another blast rocked the ship, and several warning alarms began to blare. "Were losing deflector strength in grid twenty four, captain," Gavplek warned, his eyes locked on a representation of the Republica displayed on one of the tactical screens. Several of its rear sections were glowing red.

"Time to the wormhole?"

"Twenty seconds," Cortana replied, watching Ryceed intently from her pedestal. The woman glared back, ignoring the next thermonuclear explosion that rocked her ship.

"You're sure that you can pull this off? I'd rather go down fighting than be stranded in some distant backwater or deposited in a star."

Cortana replied only with a wink, and then turned her attention to Data and his team. "Are all the systems prepared?"

"Affirmative. I am shunting deflector control and all other required protocols to the systems you can directly interface. I recommend you begin the sequence in exactly fifteen point seven seconds."

Cortana took one last look around the bridge; Ryceed's distrust, Picard's nervous anticipation, and the Chief's calm and trusting patience. She could still feel his confidence and faith in her abilities through their neural link, and they encouraged her. She wouldn't let him down, let any of them down. After all, how hard could navigating an uncharted spatial anomaly of unknown origin with a margin of error less than half a second long be? It's not like she'd never done such a thing before.

"Alright, we're going in. Wish me luck."

The odd thing about Alliance computer systems, Cortana reflected, was that even though they had more space and processing power than anything she'd ever encountered before, they were oddly confining, probably be design. Every system and subsystem was separated from one another, and it was difficult to access more than one of them at a time. It probably made incursion by hostile virus programs or infiltration algorithms far more difficult, a prudent safety measure, but it also served to slow Cortana's processing ability and reaction time to a level significantly below what she was accustom to on a UNSC starship. It was good then that Data had had the presence of mind to manually connect all the systems Cortana would need into a temporary nexus; the anticipated maneuver would be impossible otherwise.

Using the _Republica's_ sensors, she could see in every direction; the Imperial strike force, the clouds of TIE fighters pelting the engine block with blistering green hail, the unnamed star system's distant primary. The one thing she could not actually perceive was the wormhole they were barreling towards, it was virtually invisible to all but the most aggressive and specific of scans, but she new exactly where it was, and where she needed to be. The _Cornwall's_ data banks had told here that much.

A few seconds later, a significantly extended period to the AI now that she was fully cut off from the outside world, the bow of the Mon Calamari starship plunged into the unknown abyss, and Cortana set to work.

At first, there was nothingness, no readings from any of the ship's active or passive scanners, no pressures or discharge from the deflector perimeter. Then, slowly, like an itch spreading up one's arm, the lashing discharges started. Something, out there in the abyss, was grabbing at every joule of energy that was diffused beyond the hull of the ship and turning it back inward, distorting the shields and disrupting the sensors. One stray vein of energy bypassed the shields entirely and lanced directly into one of the starship's power supply lines. Cortana felt the fire control computer for an ion cannon on deck five overload.

_I hope no one was using that. _

One of her own subsystems, a chronometer logarithm, alerted her to the time; Data's countdown was up. Cortana reached out, expanding her consciousness into all of the scanners and sensor arrays that were still operational. She was looking for some pattern, an underlying root of the attacks that could be identified, and harnessed.

_There it was._

A clear loop of discharges and pulses emerged, stable yet complex. Oddly so in fact. She would have expected any pattern in the phenomenon to be erratic and difficult to harness, yet this one was very clear, almost screaming to be found.

Cortana switched her attentions, seizing control of the deflector shield network. A very fine adjustment to the power output for the system, and a resonance began to emerge in the invisible barrier. As the vibration began to grow and fluctuate, the AI began to bombard the shield with tractor beam micro-pulses, driving the ship's own pattern to match the one she could feel in the void around her. For a moment, the patterns met and then fluctuated apart, but Cortana seized the initiative, varying the micro-pulses more quickly. The patterns came back in line.

Now there was only one more step; apply the frequency recorded at the beginning of the _Cornwall's_ journey to the _Republica's_ deflector array. Something in the back of her mind told Cortana that she was running out of time, the energy feedback was becoming more and more intense. With renewed urgency, she pulsed the tractor beam generators and shield emitters, slowly at first, and then more quickly as the deflector began to align.

She winced as one of the sensor arrays overloaded, and a full quadrant of the ship was blocked from view. What remained though was beginning to pick up something very interesting. Rather than remain a solid frequency, or taper off into a thousand disparate stands, the ambient pattern began to break into exactly four distinct and stable pieces. Cortana was amazed, for she had never seen a natural phenomenon behave in such an orderly and logical manner before.

Her fascinated inspection of the unique series was cut short however, as the ambient frequency began to change, pulsing in syncopation with the deflector system. A tremor ran through the ship, and Cortana sensed one of the four strands becoming more prominent, it's frequency ringing in accord with the _Republica's_. She felt the ship jolt again, the pattern began to distort, the energy discharges coalescing into a wall of light...

And then it was over, the charged void began to vanish, replaced by the familiar blackness of deep space. Sum time in transit: seven seconds.

Before the AI had anytime to really begin to appreciate her success, or start assessing the damage the ship had suffered, something else, one of her own subsystems again, distracted her. Cortana had almost forgotten about the fragment of her consciousness she had assigned to analyze the Arbiter's data chip, which was still nestled in the Chief's helmet. The task was noted as being completed, and curious, the AI accessed the results.

It took her .45 seconds to realize something was horribly wrong.

"Transit is complete, captain."

The helmsman was somewhat amazed at the sound of his own voice, as was everyone within earshot. The last few seconds had been so remarkably strange, that it was odd to discern anything that seemed familiar. At first, it had seemed like everyone had passed out, but all of them to a one had then witnessed a lightshow of impossible colors and pulses, an experienced that seemed to have transcended time and conscious reality itself. And now that everyone was firmly back in control of their mental faculties, it seemed that no one had collapsed or moved in any way. Even Data seemed to have been effected similarly.

"Fascinating," the android stated simply, rising from his seat and looking around the chamber in what almost appeared to be a state of amusement.

Ryceed was the first to fully recover, rushing over to one of the ship's status readouts. "Damage report."

"Minor damage to main ion control and the hyperdrive motivators," Gavplek reported. "There also seems to be some sort of feedback in our sensor array, but Comm is already filtering out the static."

"Structural damage?"

"None reported."

"And the Imperials?"

"Sensors aren't picking up any enemy transponders in our immediate vicinity," a Mon Calamari lieutenant reported, still working to factor out the static that was clouding his instruments.

At last, the slightest of smiles crossed Ryceed's face, and she turned to Picard and Leia, who had climbed to the command deck beside her. "Well, it looks like your droids did it Picard. I suppose I owe them both a debt of gratitude."

Picard smiled gratefully. "I'll pass that long. Now, shall we figure out where exactly that wormhole deposited us?"

"Captain." The same lieutenant spoke up again. "I'm picking up new power readings. A lot of them."

The color drained out of Ryceed's face and she was at the officer's side in an instant. "I thought you said none of the enemy warship followed us though the anomaly."

"No sir, not Imperial," the officer replied, indicating to a sensor display. "They're not like anything I've ever seen before, and there's nothing on file that matches up. The power sources definitely aren't hypermatter fusion or solar ionization based."

Leia drifted over now, as did Captain Picard. "One of your ships perhaps?" she suggested.

Picard looked at the figures and power ratings scrolling across the screen, then shook his head. "It doesn't look familiar, and if I'm reading the energy scaling chart correctly, those kind of levels are far beyond any ship in Starfleet."

"Sir, the long range imaging scanners just came online. We appear to be in the middle of a star system; four planets, one of them a gas giant, main-sequence star. I'm picking up a lot of activity around the second planet in the system. Dozens… no, hundreds of contacts. There's also a lot of energy being thrown around out there, it looks like a battle."

"Show me."

The main holographic display morphed into the form of a tiny blue and green planet, wreathed in uncounted miniscule dots and flecks of color. Ryceed shot a sharp glance at the sensor officer, and he rushed to magnify the image. After a few moments, the glimmering display shifted again, and the planet increased in size one hundred fold. The tiny dots that encircled it also increased in clarity, taking the shape of tiny, brick-like structures and larger vessels that looked oddly like shelled sea creatures.

It was not these forms however, or the power readings that began to feed more clearly across the sensor screens and projections, that caught the Master Chief's attention. From his place in on the lower level of the bridge, the Spartan stared up at the globe itself, his eyes absorbing the shape of its continents and the deep blue of its vast oceans. He could even make out cities, tiny splotches of gray along rivers and coasts; there were other splotches as well, swaths of brown and black that seemed to be spreading across the planet even as he watched. The Master Chief had seen this planet before, and he knew it well.

A planet named Reach.


	21. Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Thirty Nine

The Holy Covenant was built upon hierarchy, and without uncompromising adherence to it, its vast empire would have collapsed long ago. As often was the case with systems built upon conquest and obedience, none of the Covenant's power could have been won without the thankless servitude and sacrifice of countless trillions of lesser workers and soldiers; the Unngoy, Kig-yar, Drinol, and Yanme'e all had labored at the lowest levels of society for thousands of years, so long that most would not have it any other way. Above them, barely, came the Lekgolo, warriors of titanic strength and epic endurance, and the Huragok, the engineers who maintained the Covenant's mighty fleets and kept the huge military state from collapsing under its own logistical weight. Then came the Jiralhanae, the newest client species of the Covenant and the rarest, who served as the personal servants of the highest level of the empire.

Finally, near the top of this interstellar societal pyramid, sat the Sangheili, a founding partner of the Covenant, and the motivators of the Covenant military, driven by an unparalleled sense of honor and devotion to whatever task they would set upon. Only one race, so mighty and divine in the eyes of those that they ruled that they were only known by their self-given title, was elevated beyond these great soldiers. The Prophets, as they were called, first partner in the foundation of the Covenant, were the force that united and inspired the entire unstoppable machine. They were the conduit for the will of the gods, the Forerunners, a species so ancient that only a few relics and cryptic glyphs scattered throughout the galaxy still remained of them. At the Covenant's founding, the earliest Prophets told of a place beyond space and time where these mighty beings still resided, waiting to accept all those who worshiped them into eternal paradise, salvation from the cruel reality of existence.

The design of Covenant warships mirrored this strict hierarchy. Within elegantly curved hulls of meters-thick amethyst-hued metal, Unngoy and Kig-yar crewers toiled in cramped work areas, manning massive plasma turrets and operating unimportant substations. Further inward, Huragok maintained delicate power matrices and tended the slipspace drives that could push the starships beyond the limitations of light and realspace, a little closer to the gods perhaps, as the technology necessary for the devices had been reverently salvaged from ancient Forerunner wrecks.

Then, at the very heart of the vast vessels, was the overbridge, domain of the Sangheili and those Prophets who would choose to grace the ships with their presence. From this chamber, the Ship Master and his staff had enough power at their disposal to obliterate all life on the surface of a planet, or hunt a heretic across the galactic disk. The heart of one vessel in particular, one of the mightiest warships the Covenant had constructed since its conception, served the same function, but the one who occupied it elevated the space to a place of far greater importance.

Tall and imposing even for the giants that made up his race, Teno 'Falanamee, stood in calm reflection to one side of the circular command platform that hovered on anti-gravity beams meters above the small communications pit and the basin-like floor surrounding it. Though his posture exuded control and intensity, his dress was not what one would expect of a Ship Master of his status. Rather than the customary golden armor others of his station flaunted while on duty, he wore simple, jet-black armor, similar to that worn by the most elite of the Sangheili Special Operations forces. When being observed by a Prophet, he would wear the normal uniform out of respect, but the simpler garb was always donned for battle.

This small deviation from the norm was indicative of 'Falanamee's personality and command style. While just as strict and aggressive as his fellow Ship Masters, he was far more willing to relate with and listen to his underlings, and avoided suicidal and unnecessarily costly tactics in battle whenever possible, reluctant to sacrifice even Unggoy, lowliest of all Covenant species. This unusual loyalty to his men had made 'Falanamee very popular among his crew, and their efficiency rating in battle was markedly higher than any other in the entire Covenant starfleet. The Sangheili on the High Council, ruling body of the Covenant, had taken notice of his success in the field, and had given him command of Particular Justice, a large and prestigious group of warships lead by some of the best officers in the fleet. At his elevation ceremony, the High Prophet of Truth himself, greatest of all of the Hierarchs, had deemed him "One of our greatest instruments."

Since even before his first command, Teno 'Falanamee had fought, as most Sangheili had, in the Covenant's newest great crusade, one in a long line of conquests the Prophets had decreed over the ages. Most of the client members of the Covenant had been assimilated by these crusades, as their typical purpose was to, "join the peoples of the galaxy together for their own salvation, so that we might all better prepare for the predestined great journey into cleansed bliss", in the words of a High Prophet of millennia past.

This war, however, was different. Rather than subdue and indoctrinate the newly discovered species, the prophets had decreed upon first contact that the beings were a blight upon the galaxy, and would have to be cleansed for salvation ever to occur. Such was the will of the gods, they said, and could not be denied. The subjects of the Prophet's ire, known as Humans, possessed technology vastly inferior to the Covenant's, and most had predicted the slaughter would be brief. The slight, hairless mammals, however, had proved to be staunch and ingenious foes, hiding their worlds from the overwhelming Covenant fleet through a myriad of restrictive protocols and fighting fiercely when located. The war had raged on for eleven time units, thirty years by the human calendar, and doubt in the effectiveness and purpose of their quest had begun to grow among the Covenant's ranks. Why are we slaughtering these humans who have proved themselves so worthy in battle, some Sangheili had begun to ask, and the doubt had grown from there. A slew of assassinations of lesser Prophets and their staunchest followers, and a spreading breakaway heretical movement had begun to question the validity of the Prophets, and undermined the hierarchy that had existed for uncounted generations. The slight improvement in human firepower over time and rumors of unstoppable warriors being integrated into their ranks had not helped ease tensions.

Thus, when a spy probe had at last located the world known as Reach, suspected center of all human military operations, the hierarchs had summoned a fleet of hundreds of capital ships to obliterate the world, a blow that would hopefully crush all remaining human resistance and stem the tide of descent within the hierarchy. 'Falanamee, his reputation increased by several very successful campaigns during the long war, had been dispatched to command the Particular Justice in their role during the battle. The assault had been surprisingly costly, and a lucky strike by a small human attack cruiser had managed to destroy the _Blessed Fire_, flagship of the attack force. 'Falanamee had assumed command of the massed fleet, but by that time most of the human fleet was shattered, and the remaining fighting was centered around a single human space station, which was suspected to hold data on the location of the human homeworld, and thus could not be destroyed, yet.

The towering Sangheili stared up into the glimmering hologram of the embattled world that filled the cavernous space above the command platform, noting the black patches beginning to spread across its surface. As was customary after human resistance around one of their worlds was quashed, the victorious fleet would turn its landmasses into sheets of glass and boil its oceans into nothingness from orbit. He was careful not to let the emotion become evident to any of his subordinates, but inwardly, he sighed. He believed in the Prophets, and would follow the word of the gods to his dying breath, but the needless slaughter of so many of these beings was beginning to wear upon him, and had been doing so for several years, since he had been ordered to bombard a heavily-populated human world completely devoid of any means of resistance. Such an action went against his personal warrior's ethic, especially considering how valiantly the beings fought even against impossible odds. They would make fine additions to the Covenant, if circumstances were different.

Still, he would not think of openly defying the Prophet's edict, and they had said this must be done. It might not make sense to him or any other warrior, but the motives of Forerunners and their instruments were surely beyond his comprehension.

_Speaking of which… _

He heard the quite clack of armored boots on the polished metal floor and turned, his eyes met by the prideful stare of a subordinate, Hiph 'Netanimee. The younger Sangheili, of a more muscular build than the Ship Master, dipped his arched head in respect, allowing the soft light of the hologram above them to glint off of his white helm.

"Report."

"Excellency, the _Gentle Fate_ is beaming us a communications order. It is of the highest urgency."

'Falanamee nodded and waved the commander away with a four-fingered hand, turning to a smaller, dormant holographic generator that sat slightly off from the main one. 'Netanimee quickly walked over to the edge of the floating disc and motioned to a Sangheili major standing at attention below, who in turn relayed the confirmation to the four Huragok who worked diligently in the communications pit. A moment later, the holographic generator sparked to life, swiftly drawing a figure out of pulses of light in the space above it. The Ship Master knelt.

A diminutive, long-necked creature with a triangular head came into view, huge, almost reptilian eyes not betraying any emotion as he looked through the projector. He was dressed in expansive, crimson robes and was seated in a high-backed hover chair, common for his kind, who were generally physically fragile. The voice that emerged from his thin, wrinkled lips was surprisingly deep.

"The battle goes well, Teno 'Falanamee?"

"Yes, noble one. The human fleet should be utterly defeated in moments, and the bombardment of their world has begun."

"Good, good."

'Falanamee could tell that the alien, who went by the title Prophet of Benefaction, was concerned about something. Despite the fact that the Prophet's ship was observing the battle from well outside the planetary system (it wouldn't do for one of the Hierarchs own lieutenants to be put in harms way unnecessarily), it sported a sensor system superior to even his flagship's, and it would not surprise him if the Prophet had seen an element of the waning conflict he had not.

"My vessel has detected a lone human ship leaving the system. It seems to have slipped though your battle net, and is on the verge of escaping into the void."

"You would have me pursue it?"

The Prophet raised a thin eyebrow at the question. "Of course. The cleansing of this place must be complete. No humans who fought here can be allowed to escape. Such is the will of the Hierarchs."

"Then it shall be done, noble one."

"The Council will hear of your actions on this day, Ship Master. You have done a great service for the Covenant, and your fidelity will not soon be forgotten."

"I live and die for the Great Journey and its harbingers."

The Prophet nodded in solidarity, and his image faded into nothingness. Rising from his position of supplication, 'Falanamee glanced back at the battle map, which now registered no functioning human craft save one, its coordinates transmitted to the flagship along the same frequency as the Prophet's command. It was a relatively small, ugly-looking vessel, even by human design standards, but it was moving unusually fast, streaking from the defeated world like a rider-less steed. The Ship Master's immediate battle group was the closest unit to it of the massed fleet, made up of his warship and a small collection of support craft, including several squadrons of agile fighterships the humans called seraphs.

"'Netanimee, alert our combat cluster. We are to engage that fleeing human vessel. Follow it into the void if necessary. Then inform the master of the _Ark Crusade_ that he has taken command of the armada and to await further instruction from the noble Prophet when the immolation of that world is complete."

"Shall I summon more ships?"

"They will not be needed. Humans may be clever prey, but even they cannot deny the power of this ship and its crew. Our hunt will be brief."

The millisecond Cortana had reviewed her analysis program's results, she launched into action, not bothering to even take a cursory scan of the _Republica's_ new quardinants before beginning to bypass the firewalls and cut-offs that segmented the starship's computer system. Her artificial mind processed and reprocessed the information she had deciphered as her consciousness flitted through subsystems and low-power connection circuits, trying to extrapolate outcomes and make links to other data she held in her formidable memory. One thing had been instantly clear however; she would have to act fast, or the _Republica_ and everyone on it would be killed.

Finding herself at last in a more directly networked system, power distribution monitoring, she jumped into the processor of a maintenance terminal, and the branched out again, attempting to locate another system network, reactor output control. The firewalls here were far stiffer than they had been in the less vital systems she had traversed, but the infiltration software wired into her cortex allowed the AI to ward them off temporarily. She doubted she would be able to do so again, considering the adaptive nature of the ship's programming, but there was no time to waste worrying about such an unlikely eventuality.

After a few moments of searching, Cortana located her target, a minor offshoot of the hypermatter reactor system, secondary flow regulation.

_Yes, this is place. Now if I could only figure out what he did in here… _

Unsurprisingly, the selected interface's activity logs for the last few hours had been carefully erased, but Cortana had encountered that trick before, and swiftly began to scan files not directly related to the terminal's primary function, but still shared its subsection of memory space. There were always footprints when files were erased, especially in a hasty manner, as the ones she was looking for had been. Nevertheless, there seemed to be no evidence of any imprinting on the adjacent software she was searching. Perhaps Alliance technology was efficient enough to disperse even those tiny bits of irrelevant code.

Running through all of the decoding procedures and hacking protocols she had at her disposal, Cortana attempted formulate another strategy, and all the while the nagging chronometer in the back of her mind counted on, the danger increasing with each passing digit. Focusing every byte of processing power on the problem, the AI ran through dozens of procedures in seconds, discarding each one as it dead-ended. The digital equivalent of a profanity began to cycle through her thought processes, growing more prominent and rapid as each operation failed.

Then, purely by accident, Cortana stumbled upon the answer, a small bit of encoding so unimportant and dissimilar in UNSC computer systems that she had overlooked it at first. Another thing that was different here.

_I'm really starting to hate this ship. _

Fully aware that there was no time to mope, she pressed forward, rapidly pouring over the recovered logs. Most were regular systems maintenance, pass code encryptions, things of that nature, but a few of the most recent logged commands did not deal with power flow systems at all, but rather with the reactor itself.

Cortana accessed one of the commands in particular, more involved than the rest, and suddenly found here attention dragged to a completely different terminal via some kind of hacked remote interface. Normally, the system, hypermatter injection control, would be heavily fire-walled, but the link-up seemed to have bypassed the security entirely. Alien design or not, Cortana immediately noticed something in the system was slightly out of place, and applied the information to her growing file on the subject.

_The Chief is going to love this one._

"A bomb?" Captain Ryceed stared into Cortana's glimmering eyes, seemingly trying to decide whether or not the AI was joking, or simply being obnoxious. She had just lead her crew and ship away from certain destruction, and been one of the first beings of her galaxy to actually traverse a wormhole, accomplishments impressive even for a Alliance captain, and now this interloper in her computer was telling her that there was an infiltrator among her crew, and an explosive buried with the _Republica's_ innards. Imal would have truly thought it some cruel joke and ordered the AI at last extricated from her systems, but when the Master Chief had briefly informed the command staff that they had somehow stumbled upon his homeworld and galaxy, Cortana had barely even paused to inspect the holographic globe floating in the middle of the bridge. The being was serious.

It took a moment for the Captain to respond, and when she did, it was with her furrowed brow and most of her faced covered by a slightly trembling hand. The posture drew worried glances from the upper levels of her command crew; the woman was obviously exhausted and out of her element, a circumstance which made Ryceed notoriously unpredictable and irrational.

"Alright, I'm listening."

Cortana nodded and her image morphed into a rough cross-section of one of the starship's interior decks, very near the _Republica's_ large hypermatter annihilation reactor. "I believe that the device is somewhere in here, most likely planted on one of the coolant pylons that periodically pump super-cooled gas into the shell surrounding the reactant chamber." A section of the deck beyond the crewed passageways, directly under the core sphere, lit up, glowing with special emphasis around three tube-like structures that jutted up into the reactor several decks above. "If I'm right, the next time one of these injector pumps locks into place to deliver its payload, in four minutes, the device will detonate. The damage would be catastrophic."

"We should deactivate the system immediately," Gavplek warned, checking the chronometer inlaid in a nearby terminal anxiously.

Ryceed nodded in agreement, but she looked concerned. "Commander Hessun, what effect would shutting down those injectors have on our operational status?" The officer in question, chief of the ship's maintenance corps moved over quickly to assess the data Cortana was displaying.

"We'd have to send the reactor into low-level stasis cycle while those pylons are offline, sir. The risk of overloading the regulation systems without a steady supply of that coolant is too great. In any event, there's too much static charge in the injector chamber to perform a search when the reactor is at full strength, even for droids." The abnormally pale Mon Calamari's skin tone and raspy voice served to enhance his aura of anxiety. "Switching over to the reserve generators, life support and the deflectors could stay online, but we'd lose the weapons and most of our maneuvering power."

Ryceed continued to scrutinize the projection for a while longer, and then looked up at the globe that was the newly discovered planet, wreathed in brightly-indicated starships of unknown design, its landmasses now gaining a distinctly unnatural, blackened appearance.

"Captain," Cortana's voice urged.

"Are those starships hostile?"

"Very." The Chief's resonate voice garnered the attention of all those near him, as it always did. "As we speak, the Covenant are killing billions of defenseless civilians trapped on that planet."

Cortana reappeared, shooting the Spartan a sour look, but her annoyance at his lack of diplomatic skill was blunted somewhat by the bombardment of Reach unfolding before her eyes, again. _No, there's nothing we can do for them. Especially not now._ "Captain, were running out of time. I do not believe that the Covenant fleet has detected our presence, and if we wait here too much longer, all they'll ever find is a cloud of gaseous debris."

Glanced from one hologram to the other, and shook her head sighing. "Alright, do it. Commander, how long will it take to get back main power when the system can be reactivated?"

The pale Mon Calamari, who was already reaching for a wall comm to relay the order, diverted to a nearby operations computer. "Two minutes and twenty seconds, sir."

Ryceed acknowledged the data and Hessun rushed to contact the core. "Cortana, before we dispatch anyone to the suspect system, I want to know just how you came across this information."

Cortana did not pause before responding. "I analyzed a visual recording given to me by the Arbiter a few minutes ago." Standing back from the main group of officers and ambassadors, but listening no less intently, Major Truul's eyebrows rose in alarm. "It shows one of your officers, one Lieutenant Flitch, planting an explosive device in a computer room onboard the Alliance supply station. I simply followed up my suspicion that he would likely attempt something similar here by searching recent computer activity near…"

"Wait, what's all this now?" Major Truul was now standing in the midst of the group, glaring at Cortana sharply. "Flitch is no Imperial. There's no way. If that's what your source is saying, I wouldn't trust it."

"I'm afraid it's true, unless you can explain why he hacked into the core power regulation computer using stolen access codes, or what he was doing here." She disappeared again, replaced by a two-dimensional image, somewhat blurry and jerky, but viewable nonetheless. On it, a young man in an Alliance uniform walked quickly down a narrow hallway and slipped into a side door. The image followed him quickly, its bearer slipping in through the door before it had time to close. Now illuminated only by the soft light of computer display, the officer quickly crossed the empty, dark room, and placed a case on top of a data file storage cabinet. The figure worked quickly, loosening a wall panel with a powered lever, then inserting a largish, square object into the hole. He tapped it a few times, and a series of digits appeared on its side surface, almost obscured by the man's body. He tapped a few more commands, and then covered the digits with a lid, sealing the entire thing into the wall. He quickly slipped his prying implement back into the case, and turned, at which point the projection halted. There, even in the relative darkness, the lieutenant's soft features were very clear, although this time, they had a distinctly hard edge about them.

"I can only guess at how the Arbiter obtained this, or why he waited so long to show it to us, but the recording is authentic and unmodified." Cortana's voice was urgent. "Now please, we must act quickly."

Truul's lips tightened into a skull-like grimace, and he unclipped the communicator from his belt, his eyes still fixed on the projected face. "Security control, this is Major Truul. Alert all armed personnel that Lieutenant Flitch, of my staff, is to be detained by any means necessary. Warn them that he's likely armed." The man paused, his face a mask. "If he resists, give them authorization to use lethal force. Flitch is not to get off this ship, under any circumstances."


	22. Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty

_Keep mobile. Be erratic. Finger on the trigger. _

Flitch repeated these words of wisdom from his training over and over again in his mind in an attempt to keep focused. The long hallways of the Rebel starship now felt uncomfortably narrow; almost closing in on him. Some of the crewmen he passed eyed him surreptitiously, more out of casual curiosity than suspicion, but the distinction meant nothing to the infiltrator right now; any inquiry could mean the death of him. He hugged the case in the crook of his arm closer, making sure that its access flap was unbound.

As far as Flitch knew, he had not yet been discovered, despite the brutish alien's assault, but as he made his way towards the main hangar deck, the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle with anxiety. Certainly, it was a natural reaction for a man in his situation, especially for one largely inexperienced with this kind of operation, but he knew intuitively that it was more than that. The Ubiqtorate taught its operatives to trust their instincts, even when logic indicated otherwise. Of course, imperial training was generally focused enough to make the two one and the same.

_Footsteps. _

Barely thinking, Flitch turned into a side hall, walking a few meters more before ducking behind a pillar of protruding conduit housing. His left hand reached out for the access flap of his container, and he waited, listening intently. After a few moments, the footfalls became louder, and for a brief second, Flitch caught a snippet of a hushed conversation. The man speaking sounded concerned about something, but the operative couldn't pick out enough of the words to derive any meaning from them. Determined to confirm his suspicions, Flitch moved from his hiding spot as soon as the pedestrians had passed, catching a glimpse of their backs before they disappeared beyond a turbolift door. Two Rebel marines, their holsters empty and backs squared with purpose.

Withdrawing again from the main hall, Flitch gritted his teeth, considering options. They were on to him now, that was almost certain, but it was unlikely they knew where he was, or he would be in custody already. Avoiding monitored portions of the ship and sticking to service access ways might shake them for a time, but he would have to move quickly before the hangar was locked down and his only method of escape was removed from him. Not to mention the explosive that would be detonating in a scant few minutes. Still, Flitch had made sure he had an Idiot's Array up his sleeve before implementing the final stage of his mission. Now all he had to do was hurry.

Glancing around to make sure he was still unobserved, Flitch groped around in a side panel of his case and removed a small rectangle of plastoid, adorned with several unremarkable buttons.

"Ignition one," he whispered, and depressed the first control.

Despite the size of the _Republica_, the tremors caused by the explosion were quite noticeable on the bridge, nearly causing several of those still standing around the holographic projector to fall to the deck plate.

"Report."

Captain Ryceed leapt from her seat when the blast reverberated through her bridge, but she nevertheless tried to keep her voice and composure calm. A flurry of comm signals and internal sensor scans later, an Operations officer turned to report.

"There was an explosion on deck thirty, section D two. Several casualties, no fatalities reported so far. Security is clearing the area."

"What happened?" Gavplek asked.

"The traitor," Worf growled from his place by Captain Picard.

The operations officer paused to listen to another update over his comm line, and then nodded. "Yes, it looks like an explosive went off near the armory on that deck. However, it seems like the device didn't have the desired effect. None of the munitions went off, and there were no hull breaches, just some structural damage to the hallway on deck thirty one, directly below."

"He messed up," Ryceed noted, turning to Major Truul, who was listening to the report with the same stony-faced expression he had used to order his subordinate's capture. "We have to find him before he can set off anymore of these things. Get a scanning team up here too search my bridge for any of these bombs."

Truul saluted stiffly. "Yes, Ma'am." He paused a moment. "Sir, permission to leave the bridge and lead the search of the ship for Flitch. It's my fault he's here right now, and I'm not going to let my mistake endanger this mission."

The captain nodded in consent, and Truul made for the turbolift bank, almost at a run.

"Perhaps we should go with him," Riker suggested to Picard as they watched the man step into the lift. "It's our duty to help these people now. Besides, I don't like just standing here, doing nothing." The commander had considered asking to do this before, when the Master Chief, at Cortana's request, had left with the Mon Calamari engineer to investigate the reactor bomb, and now the situation seemed all the more urgent.

"No, we mustn't interfere without their requesting it." Picard looked unhappy with his own words, but he remained firm. "The _Republica_ has its own security force. We would simply be an impediment to their efforts."

"I wouldn't recommend leaving the bridge right now for any reason," Leia Organa warned, looking away from the tense duty stations. "This is probably the safest place on the _Republica_ at the moment, assuming of course they don't find anything." She eyed the small crew of humanoids and droids who had just entered the chamber, hauling a variety of portable scanners and monitoring devices.

"Oh dear," the princess's golden protocol droid intoned quietly, nudging closer to his master.

Picard seemed similarly agitated, but Leia sensed it was for a different reason. "I'm sure the others of your group are perfectly safe. Crew quarters wouldn't be very high on the target list of a fleeing saboteur."

Picard cocked an eyebrow and smiled slightly. "I hope your right, Councilor Organa. If I may say, you have quite the knack for empathy. I try not to let my worries show in situations like this. I had thought I was somewhat good at it."

The young woman blushed slightly. "I'm sorry, that was presumptuous of me. I've just had a lot of time to gauge people's emotions in my service of the Alliance, and it comes in handy in my line of work. Oh, and you can call me Leia if you wish. I never liked the title much. The same with princess really." The last thought was accompanied by a bemused smile that the woman gave to no one in particular, at least not anyone present at the moment.

Before Picard could reply, one of the nearby crewers shouted out a warning. "Captain, we have a problem."

Ryceed was behind the woman in a flash, looking over her shoulder. "Another explosion?"

"No, sir. One of the unidentified starships around that planet has broken high orbit and is on a rough intercept course for our position. Estimated ETA, nine minutes."

"Excellency, the Maintainer has detected something worthy of your notice."

Teno 'Falanamee tore his eyes from the projection of the human ship that was flowering from a secondary holographic device and turned to Hiph 'Netanimee, who stood at sharp attention, as always.

"Indeed?"

Though he did not allow his voice to show it, the Ship Master was curious as to what news the Maintainer had deemed important enough to convey. The artificial mind, a meticulously duplicated copy of a computer program the Huragok had designed under special sanction of the Prophets several thousand years ago, the Maintainer dwelt within the hulls of most Covenant warships. They were generally tasked with regulating automatic systems and tending passive scanning arrays, and it was rare for one to actually volunteer information of any relevance, especially during combat. The mind inhabiting 'Falanamee's flagship was especially quiet; he could only recall ever actually speaking with it a handful of times. The Ship Master had always suspected that there might have been a replication defect in the holy program, but he had never had good reason to risk bring the problem up with a Prophet. To question such an old technology without a blatantly obvious reason verged on heresy.

"The holy mind has discovered an anomaly in the space between the human's world and this system's gas giant. It is emitting an energy signature unlike anything the mind has ever witnessed."

"Unlike anything it has ever witnessed?" 'Falanamee asked curiously. That was most unusual. From what the Ship Master understood of them, the artificial minds spent most of their sleepless existences analyzing and reanalyzing every bit of information in their consciousness. Though not as comprehensive as Huragok implementation repositories or the Hierarchs' personal archives, Maintainers held virtually every scrap of navigational and technical information the Covenant had ever accumulated. If something truly new had been discovered, it would most certainly be deserving of notice.

"Show it to me."

Its control display lightly nudged by the Sangheili commander, another holographic projector sprang to life, this one slowly filling the air with a glimmering outline. It was long, almost tubular, but with gracefully rounded edges. As the image increased in definition, the Ship Master noted that the object looked a great deal like some of the smaller vessels in the Covenant armada.

"The Maintainer is positive that it is not a human starship; its design is quite unlike their hideous constructs," 'Netanimee continued.

"Is it positive?" the Ship Master asked as the silhouette began to fill in, revealing large ovoid bulges and dark scars dotting its hull. "The humans have exhibited quite a talent for stealing our designs and technology. Could this not be another such aberration?"

The commander paused, his mandibles contorting into an uncomfortable frown. "Excellency, there is more. That object is emitting power levels beyond any warship in our armada, even this one. It appears to have just lowered its output for some unknown reason, but it is quite beyond the capability of any of our vessels that small."

Now 'Falanamee was intrigued. He had never personally encountered such an occurrence, and could not think of any protocol in his training relating to the encountering a non-Covenant vessel more powerful than his own. Such a thing was unheard of, and had been so since before the current age.

"Has the object made any hostile move or attempted to communicate?"

The commander glanced over at the two other intendant Sangheili officers permitted on the command dais with the Ship Master, who returned the look with a negative gesture. "No, Excellency."

Pausing only a moment longer to inspect the unknown construct, which was now quite clearly defined, 'Falanamee turned his attention back to the human vessel, still surging towards the boundaries of the conquered star system. "Instruct the _Angelic Fury_ and _Ankh Reaver_ to investigate. We have a more pressing duty to attend to. Transmit the object's coordinates to the holy Prophet's vessel as well. I'm sure he will take great interest in this discovery."

'Netanimee saluted and turned away, but before he could carry out his orders, one of the other intendants accosted him and quietly delivered a new message. Frowning, the commander turned back to his master, who was still watching him carefully.

"Excellency, the Prophet of Benefaction is demanding your audience once more. It would seem he already is aware of the Maintainer's discovery."

The Ship Master allowed himself to close both eyes at once, the greatest display of exasperation he would allow himself in public view, and then nodded stoically.

"I take it your sensors have discovered what mine have, Ship Master." When the Prophet appeared before a supplicant 'Falanamee moments later, he looked considerably more alert than he had when they had last spoken.

"Yes, noble one. I have dispatched two of my finest warships to investigate the object. I had intended on alerting you as well, but your attentiveness has made that unnecessary."

The Prophet crocked a large eyebrow and leaned forward slightly, bringing his features into sharper definition. "Very good. However, more of a reception is required. I would have you break off your pursuit and rendezvous with my vessel at the artifact's position."

'Falanamee looked up, startled. "Break off the pursuit, high one? You would allow these humans to escape divine justice?"

"You question my orders, Ship Master?"

The Sangheili chose his next words carefully. "I would never dream of such insolence, noble one. I simply do not see why my vessel's presence at the investigation of that object is necessary, especially if such a course correction allows these fugitives to escape."

An uncomfortable silence filled the air, the two leaders staring at each other through the void of space. Behind 'Falanamee, one of his officers shifted uncomfortably. At last, the Prophet leaned back in his hover throne, a thin smile creasing his lips.

"Your question is a prudent one, Ship Master. What I would expect from one of your esteemed rank. However, my order stands. It is my belief that the artifact we have discovered is of Forerunner construction. What is more, it appears to be in very good repair. Perhaps even… inhabitable."

Now the Ship Master was genuinely astonished. To find an intact Forerunner artifact was a momentous occasion, but not one without precedent. But to even suggest one was found with living beings inside it… Was the Prophet suggesting that the gods had returned to the mortal plane?

With a wave of his slender hand, the Prophet warded off any further inquiry. "I cannot relay why I suspect such an event has occurred, not until I am certain. However, your presence is required when contact is established. We must show proper respect."

"Of course, noble one."

When hologram faded, 'Falanamee shook his head slowly, looking from the new artifact to the fleeing human vessel and back again. Something about this change in plans raged against his warrior's intuition, and he certainly did not think that the Prophet's suspicions were justified, but he was committed. Letting the human ship go would do no great harm, and deep down, he did not loathe the failure. Eradicating the sentients was his duty, and one he would carry out loyally, but it gave him no pleasure.

"Change course to rendezvous with that construct. Reduce power to the plasma installations. Gods' gift, we will not need them."

_Five minutes left._

Flitch looked both ways down the hallway, and seeing only a few turned backs, dove across into the open door across the way. He immediately sealed the door and crossed the small service junction, prying loose a panel from the metal floor. This revealed a long, dark tube, descending down at least ten meters, lit only by a few dim wall mounts. The infiltrator smiled with satisfaction; this vertical access way, designed for use if the turbolift grid was offline, would bring him directly under where he needed to be. Hooking his case onto a flap of hi uniform, he slid into the hole, grabbing the protruding rungs that jutted out below.

After a few cramped, dark moments, he was at the bottom; his feet perched directly above a sealed blast door. Locating the corresponding access panel, he tapped a prominent command key, and the barrier slid away, revealing the rest of the ladder rungs, and the deck plate beneath. However, there was another, unexpected, object in his narrow field of vision below. The domed, orange head of a Mon Calamari almost completely filled the opening, bobbing slightly as the crewman repaired an electrical junction set between two of the lower rungs. Apparently, he had not heard the plug unseal itself a mere meter above him.

Flitch considered his options quickly. He couldn't go back, there was no guarantee there would be another way to the hangar he could use, and time was short anyway. There was nothing for it but to continue on. Hopefully the oblivious alien wouldn't prove too much of a challenge.

Hooking his case on one of the hand rungs, the human braced himself, and then dropped directly onto the Alliance crewer. Flitch felt his right foot impact the amphibian's skull, but rather than deliver a debilitating concussion as he had hoped, the blow slid of the alien's smooth head and both sentients tumbled to the floor. Hard.

Flitch was the first to try to rise, but the Mon Cal began to flail immediately, obviously disoriented, but still dangerous. The Imperial agent fell upon him again, slamming the alien back to the deck and smothering his lipless mouth. His large, finned arms began to pound on the assailant's sides, but Flitch gritted his teeth and drove his elbows down, pinning the crewer more tightly to the cold deck. The Mon Calamari did not relent, thrashing and kicking as its huge eyes bulged out even larger, desperately searching the room for something that could help him. Feeling the larger being beginning to overcome the shock of its assault, Flitch again threw himself down upon the alien, lunging forward to grab its scaly neck. With a quick motion, he jerked sideways, and with a raspy gasp, the alien stopped moving.

Breathing heavily, he rolled off the crewer and scrabbled to his feet, quickly scanning his new surroundings. The room he was in, identical to the one above, was empty save for himself and the defeated Rebel. Flitch glanced back down at the immobile form and nudged it with his foot. The Mon Calamari was dead. The Imperial exhaled a long sigh, and then stepped over the body, plucking his case from where he had deposited it. Remorse was one of the first things that had been trained out of him.

Not bothering to make any effort to hide the corpse, Flitch deactivated the small chamber's light panel, and listening at the door to make sure the way was clear, slipped out. The narrow hallway, a service passage, was vacant, obstructed only by a single deactivated astromech that was propped up to one side of the walkway. Pausing a moment to regain his bearings, the infiltrator set off again, careful to avoid the passages around him he knew to be constantly monitored. Though his stealthy route was unimpeded and devoid of unexpected complications, Flitch could tell time was running out, and he was beginning to fall behind.

At last he came to a doorway he clearly recognized, one that lead to the main inhabited area on the deck below level one he needed to reach. That meant that his tedious escape was almost at an end, although one of the most difficult parts still lay ahead. He would have to cross through several main, inhabited corridors to reach the vertical crawlway that would bring him to the flight deck. Once there, he could slip behind whatever guards the Alliance had posted there, detonate the last of his devices, which would ensure an unimpeded departure, and coast away. After a brief display of pyrotechnics, it would be a simple matter to relay a pickup code to the nearest Imperial base. Flitch wasn't entirely sure where the _Republica_ was at the moment, he had been absorbed in preparations for since departure, but he was sure that the data on Rebel and sympathizer activities he had accumulated would prove him worthy of a speedy retrieval, no matter where he was. His instructors had always noted his single-minded focus on a mission as a potential weakness, but it seemed to have worked in his favor this time; what did it matter where the Rebel vessel was going? It would be wreckage in a few minutes anyways.

Sure that his case was firmly secured at his side, Flitch removed a blank datapad from his pocket, positioned it before him in manner that indicated enthrallment, and allowed the automatic door to open.

There was surprisingly little foot traffic in the hallway, one that ran severed as a junction for several major duty stations, and a junior officer barracks. As he walked along, seemingly absorbed with the nonexistent data the pad possessed, Flitch theorized that it was likely due to him. Though he had heard no ship-wide alert, the recent explosion and increased presence of armed marines was likely to raise suspicions amongst the crew, and if confronted, Flitch suspected the soldiers had been instructed to warn crewers of the threat. Walking out in the open in such an environment was extremely risky, but Flitch hoped that his face was not particularly well known to most of the cruiser's crew, and he had taken the time to swap his uniform for that of a low-level technician. Who would suspect an oblivious-looking tech wandering through a heavily traveled area, absorbed with some unimportant scrap of data?

A minute and several turns later, Flitch was still, at least seemingly, unnoticed. He suspected the surveillance cameras he had passed would identify him if given a few more moments, but by the time they did, he would be well away from the supernova that would engulf them. Still closely inspecting the blank pad, Flitch made one final turn, to the side passage that would bring him to the appropriate access way.

Smoothly, without even showing that he had looked up at all, the infiltrator ducked behind an extruding computer bank. Though he had only caught sight of them in his peripheral vision as he turned the corner, he had instantly recognized the uniform and weapon of the Rebel marine. His heart pounded and he stuck his right hand into the case at his side, preparing himself for the attack. It never came.

The marine he had seen, accompanied by a pair of nervously chattering techs, turned the corner, apparently not noticing the pedestrian who they had been behind was no longer in evidence, and continued on, pausing just beyond Flitch's range of vision. They began to talk, and the infiltrator shrunk into the shadows as much as he could, wedging himself behind an exposed bit of power casing.

"This is the place."

"Why would he plant one here? It's just a computer junction."

"Yes, a computer junction that networks fire control commands for most of the turbolaser banks on this side of the ship. If there was a detonation near this thing, it would take half an hour to reroute all of the weapons emplacements."

"Here, help me get this open."

"Well, I guess that makes sense. Still, if he intended on blowing up the ship anyways, why would he bother with some fire control computer?"

"Backup plan maybe, who knows? All that matters is that it's a potential target. You know the Major's orders."

"Well, even if we find one here. I'd rather be taking care of it up here than down under the core. I had third shift down there a few weeks ago. Kind of creepy."

"Whatever. I'm just glad they found the one down there so quickly. I've got a score to settle with those Imperial bastards before they send me to the Seven Hells."

At this point, Flitch stopped listening. It was all he could do to stop himself from screaming out loud in frustration. The culmination of his operation was ruined! He couldn't comprehend how the Rebels had located the core device, there was no beacon or activation transmitter on it; he had made sure of that. And they couldn't have retraced his steps from the regulation computer so quickly, not even Imperial descrambler droids could break down the barriers he had put up so quickly.

No, there was no time to mull the failure. He still had to get off the ship; the information he had stolen still had value. There was still a way for him off the cruiser, assuming of course the diversions he had put in place did their jobs.

From the sound of it, the trio of Rebels had moved to the other side of the terminal, and taking advantage of their diverted attentions, Flitch stepped back out into the hallway, trying to look as inconspicuous as before. He passed the crewers without incident, and focused himself intently on the doorway beyond which the service ladder lay.

"Excuse me."

Flitch froze, ready to break into a fighting run.

"I'm quite sorry, but I think I'm lost. Its kind of embarrassing actually, I have been onboard this ship for a week, but… well…"

The infiltrator's heart began to slow again; he knew that voice. Sure enough, standing awkwardly behind him, was Reginald Barclay, the fidgety man he had helped rescue from the _Torrent_ as part of his cover operation. A small smile creased Flitch's stress-drained lips.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all. Where do you need to go?"

Barclay returned the smile uneasily. "Oh, thanks. I've been trying to find the diplomatic quarters. Captain's orders."

Flitch nodded, and pointed down the hall, away from where the scanning team still worked. "There's a turbolift bank that way. It can get you to deck twelve. I can show you if you like."

"That would be… um, appreciated. I haven't quite gotten my head around your numbers." He blushed a bit. "You know, you look very familiar. Lieutenant, I think?"

"No, just an ensign. Unfortunately."

"Ah, sorry. You just looked familiar."

"No problem. I'm sure I 'd have remembered someone like you if we'd met before."

"Why do you say that?"


	23. Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty One

Commander Hessun's huge, dark eyes twitched and swirled as he peered through the dim light at some lettering stenciled on the cold, durasteel wall. "Here we are. The injector hub should be just beyond this bulkhead."

The Mon Calamari gestured to a smallish hatch set against the gray wall, studded with a variety of clamps and locking mechanisms.

"I'm surprised anyone could even get in there. The static fields that keep the injectors in there running are pretty self-sufficient, and I've never had to do maintenance on any of the system. I didn't think anyone had been down here since the _Republica_ had its last refit."

"I'm positive the activation code was beamed into that chamber," Cortana replied, sharing the Chief's eyes as he looked down at the pale engineer. "It is certainly a good hiding place though; the ship's internal sensors don't seem to be able to take any clear readings of any of the systems in there."

Hessun nodded his bulbous head. "It's those generators I mentioned. They boost durability of the injector pistons nearly eighty percent, but picking up on any problems to do develop can be tricky. My crews have been having problems with the static field that replaced the one in the primary tractor grid when we last hit space dock. Lower intensity, but its still gumming up diagnostics all over the deck. The field messes with the neural programs of most of our tech droids too. Whatever we have to do on the other side of this blast door were going to have to do by hand."

Webbed fingers punched a few commands into a small wall panel, and the claps lining the hatch's perimeter popped up, revealing hand grips. "Mind helping me with this?"

Hessun braced himself against the wall and reached to grab the grips on one side of the plug, but he stepped away in mild surprise as the Master Chief, his dull armor blotting out the dim emergency lights set above them, clapped his gauntleted hands on both sides of the door and pulled. The entire hunk of five inch thick metal came free in a single, smooth motion, and was deposited lightly onto the deck like an empty knapsack.

"Heavy." The Chief glanced down at is handiwork. "Looks like battle-grade plating."

One eye fixed on the armored humanoid and the other goggling at the solid hunk of durasteel that would have drained him to move only a few inches, even with the support of the pressurized hinges set at its base, the Mon Calamari was an unintentionally comedic sight. "Um… yes, quite heavy. That blast door is designed to withstand a catastrophic plasma detonation of several kilotons."

The chamber beyond the plug was almost pitch-black, lit only by a faint shroud of phosphorescence from above. A low, rhythmic pounding, one that the pair could hear faintly since they arrived on the deck, was now very clear, and the syncopated vibration was beginning to make the Spartan's teeth chatter. He tapped a control on his helm, and a beam of light pierced the blackness. The way lit by the Chief's spotlight, the Alliance officer ducked through the entry point, quickly followed by the human himself, who easily slipped through opening despite his bulkier gear.

The room was circular, perhaps one hundred and twenty five feet from one side to the other, with a ceiling that bulged down into the center, thirty feet from the polished floor at its lowest point. Both the odd glow and vibration seemed to be emanating from the bowled ceiling, which sported several slits along its sides, each lit by a soft, white aura. The chamber itself was largely empty, save for a dozen thick tubes, which emerged from the floor at evenly-spaced intervals in a circle around the room's center and lanced diagonally into the gunmetal ceiling.

As the Chief was taking this all in, he noted an odd sound, like static, building up in his ears. The Mon Calamari, who was inspecting a metal band that ran around the closest of the pylons, seemed unaffected. "Cortana?"

There was silence for a moment, and then the static grew louder. "Sorry Chief. The fi… …erator seems to be inte…ng our link. I'll try to cut d… on the static, but I …n't be able to communicate until you leave this are… The Comm…r should be ab… to help you locate the bomb. It should be… one of the pylons. I'm shunting into the b..idge system now. Good luck."

An icy sensation bloomed at the base of the Chief's skull, and he felt Cortana's consciousness leave him. The hole she left was a bit uncomfortable, but he was used to her comings and goings by now, and shrugged it off.

The static was largely gone now, and the Spartan could think more clearly. He noticed the engineer was waving him over.

"When the injectors are online, these pistons pump up and down from the coolant tanks to the main reactor, directly above," Hessun said, patting the metallic band he had been inspecting. "Even though any detonation in this room could disastrous, the most damaging place would be up right on the core's outer casing, where the injector passes through. Place an active detpack at the point where the external piston meets the shell casing, and you could easily activate the charge with the force of the injector itself. I'm guessing what were looking for is up there, somewhere." The Mon Calamari pointed up at the tops of the thick pylons, where they interested with the side of the bowl, some fifty feet straight up.

The Master Chief followed the engineer's finger, and then appraised the dormant piping, smooth save for a few protruding patches of added casing. Sloped at nearly ninety degrees, the pylons would not make for an easy assent.

"No handholds. Typical."

In less than a second, Cortana was back in the Alliance vessel's main computer, absorbing every byte of sensor data the ship had accumulated since she diverted her attention to the search for Flitch's explosive. What she discovered was not reassuring. Finding the projector she had been using previously engaged with some other program, she flitted over to a secondary holographic tub and booted up her image, almost forgetting to reestablish an audio linkup in her haste.

"What's your plan, captain? How do we proceed?"

Ryceed, who was hunched forward in her command seat, brow creased in thought, didn't bother looking up at the shimmering figure.

"There isn't much we can do at the moment, I'm sure you realize that. Until the bomb is neutralized and the core back up to full power, were stuck here. I suppose it's too much too hope for that your friend was exaggerating when he gave me the threat analysis of our visitors out there." The _Republica_'s medium range Com-Scan had locked onto a pair of very large, shell-hulled starships, approaching their position at a prodigious rate.

Cortana sighed. "Unfortunately, he was correct. The Covenant consists entirely of brutal, genocidal zealots, bent on the eradication of the human race, for a reason none of us can fathom. I doubt the fact that you and your people are not from this galaxy will make much difference to them when they come knocking. Hopefully the _Republica_ will prove more resistant to their weaponry than the typical UNSC starship, but I can't guarantee anything, not without seeing the effect of their plasma against your deflectors."

"You may get your wish, very soon." Ryceed blew out a long breath, rubbed the spider webs brought on by a week without restful sleep from her eyes and rose wearily, then glanced at her first officer. "Do we have anymore data on those ships?"

Commander Gavplek finished relaying an order to a pair of ensigns who were working the primary sensors, and then turned, frowning. "Some, sir. The vessels are obviously warships, each sporting at least a dozen probable weapons emplacements of unknown design."

"Highly energetic plasma ejectors, employing a mobile electromagnetic sheath to encase and guide the projectile clouds they fire," the AI interjected.

"The larger of the vessels, three point three kilometers long, has some sort of deflector field encasing its hull," the commander continued. "The field is making it difficult for our sensors to get any clear reading on the ship's power output or internal systems. The smaller ship, at one and a half kilometers, lacks the field, although I suspect it is capable of generating one as well. Scanners have been able to penetrate its hull, but its systems are too alien to easily identify. Both vessels appear to be using some sort of ion drive, but seem to lack hyperdrive networks."

"Covenant vessels use an advanced variation of UNSC Shaw Fujikawa Slipspace Drive. It's substantially slower than your FTL technology, but more precise."

Ryceed had turned her attention back towards one of the holographic displays around her, which sported a three dimension representation of the larger of the two craft. "Have you been able to determine if their weapons are primed for firing?"

"Not yet, captain. We can't do that until we at least know how their power systems work."

The image of Cortana flickered as she interfaced with main scanner control, where the two ensigns were still attempting to analyze and penetrate the sensory shell around the cores of both ships. A moment later, the flickering stopped.

"Odd." Cortana looked perplexed. "Neither ship has its plasma generators primed. Reigning Covenant tactics always seem to involve obliterating a target as soon as possible. Why would they be approaching us like this? Were almost in firing range as it is."

The ensigns looked down at their interfaces, fruitlessly trying to see what the AI had amidst their confused and undecipherable readings.

As the Alliance command staff and the AI ponder the question, Captain Picard, who had been listening to the conversation with great interest, suddenly stepped forward, inspecting the Covenant warships more closely. "Cortana, do UNSC starships share any design elements with the _Republica_? Even just superficially?"

Not knowing what the human was getting at, Cortana thought for a moment. "Not really. Mon Calamari design is far smoother and more organic-looking than any Earth-made vessel, even civilian ones. Actually, this ship has more in common, at least superficially, with a Covenant capital ship than a…" She paused.

Ryceed looked up at her, irritated. "Than what? What else has gone wrong?"

"Nothing. Its just that… maybe… No, it couldn't be."

"What?"

The AI looked over the inquisitive faces of the ship's crew and passengers absently, her artificial mind tackling a new, and unexpected, idea. "Well, I don't know too much about Covenant theology, no one does, but they do worship a highly advanced race of aliens that disappeared from our galaxy hundreds of thousands of years ago. They're called the Forerunners, and all Covenant technology is based upon artifacts and designs salvaged from their abandoned installations, strewn across the galaxy."

"Now, this galaxy isn't as diverse as your own, probably due to Covenant's dominion over most of it, and locating a starship that is not readily identifiable as either human or Covenant is virtually unheard of. As I said, Covenant technology, and thus ship design, is at least vaguely similar to ancient Forerunner starships. The _Republica_ not only looks like one of their own vessels, but its power capacity also far exceeds that of any CCS-class cruiser. I don't believe I'm actually even thinking about this, but…"

"Cortana," Commander Riker too stepped forward, his mouth slightly agape. "Are you saying that the inhabitants of those ships think we are their gods?"

There was a lengthy pause, the eyes of all those in earshot fixed squarely on the projection. At last, Cortana grinned.

"You know what, Commander? That's exactly what I'm saying."

Ryceed's eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you planning now? My ship is in no state to be used as the centerpiece of some sort of gambit, especially not one based on the completely unsupported theory that these sapients think that _we are their gods_."

"From the looks of things, Captain, we don't have much of a choice. As you say, the _Republica_ is in no state to fight, and even if your deflectors can hold them off for awhile, I don't want to risk seeing what will happen when they call for reinforcements. At the very least, I can buy some time for the Chief to dispose of the bomb so we can reactivate the drives and get out of here."

She turned to Data and La'Forge, who were both still seated at the make-shift wormhole control nexus. "Have you been able to figure out why we ended up here instead of your dimensional plane?"

"Lt. Commander La'Forge and I are still analyzing the data you dumped into the core on your experience guiding the ship. However, I believe we have made significant inroads, and I am preparing a new control program for your use, should the _Republica_ attempt to reenter the wormhole. It should be ready in approximately ten minutes."

"I'm not sure if I can stall them for that long, but I will try." Cortana turned back to Ryceed, who was looking increasingly irate. "Captain, I'll need complete access to your communications and hyperwave system, as well as main ion control."

The woman gritted her teeth. "This is my ship, Cortana. You may have more knowledge of our circumstances than the rest of us, and you may still have access to the ship's computer systems, but that does not mean that I will allow you to pursue any fantastical plan you dream up, regardless of the risk it poses to the two thousand Alliance soldiers! I demand that you at least detail your plan adequately to me."

Cortana shook her head, and gestured to the main viewscreen, on which both ships were clearly visible, and still approaching. "There isn't any time, captain. We cannot fight, and we cannot simply sit here and let them pick us apart. It my may not be the best of alternatives or assured to work, but my plan is all we have."

"I will not accept this. You cannot…"

"Captain." The voice that rang out from behind them was not particularly loud or impassioned, but it was clear, and undeniable. Leia Organa walked up to Ryceed and placed a hand on her shoulder, her posture stern, and at the same time understanding. Their eyes met. "We have to trust her. There is no time. Please."

Ryceed stared at the councilor, trying to reassert her authority to the woman, but something in those eyes struck a cord, and she began to reconsider. Whether she liked it or not, Cortana was right; there weren't any other options. Certainly, she had gotten them into this situation, but the AI had also guided the Republica away from destruction at the hands of the Imperial task force.

The woman sighed resignedly. "Very well. You may do what you think is needed to keep this ship and its crew intact." Before Cortana could reply though, Ryceed's posture stiffened again. "Remember though, this is still my ship. If I find that you're doing anything more than what is necessary to safeguard the mission and the crew, or if you cause undue harm to them, I will purge you from the _Republica's_ systems myself."

"Believe me, captain. If I fail or overstep my bounds now, the Covenant will be perfectly happy to fulfill your promise for you."

The two majestic capital ships, now side by side, at last came to a stop, using the hundreds of retro thrusters dotting their hulls to eliminate their forward velocity. Their target, far smaller and less impressive than either ship, made no move in response, its weapons systems and com-lines silent. The cloud of fighters and gunships surrounding the largest vessel bunched up in tight formations around their carrier, silently awaiting orders.

From his command platform, Teno 'Falanamee too awaited orders, arms folded tightly behind his arched back. It was only proper to allow the Prophet to make first contact as he saw fit, especially if his suspicions about the immobile starship's origins were true.

"Lower the defensive screens. We must make our intent clear."

The order was swiftly carried out, and a faint shimmering ran across the hull of his might ship, visible crest of the dissipating energy field.

If the whitish, carbon-scored vessel did indeed contain who the Prophet had theorized it would, the ship master mused, this would truly be a momentous day in the history of the Covenant. The day, in fact, that the Covenant's entire existence had lead up to. If the Forerunner's, or their servants were indeed suspended before them, and they chose to reveal themselves to the Covenant's impromptu emissaries, salvation would truly be at hand. There would be no more need for the endless war, no more need for civil unrest, and the species of the holy union would transcend the known plane into paradise. 'Falanamee was not nearly as religious as some of his brethren, but the prospect appealed to even him greatly.

However, there was something about the situation that kept him from being overly elated. Part of him simply couldn't believe that a part of dogma had become, or could become, reality. The Great Journey, and even the Forerunners, had always seemed beyond mortal comprehension, a driving force and motivation, rather than a reachable goal. Of course, such thoughts were heresy.

Whatever the source of his unease, he did not have long to ponder, as he was soon alerted to an incoming communiqué from the Prophet of Benefaction's cruiser.

"The artifact has sent you no sign or message, I assume?"

"No, noble one."

The vaguely serpentine creature displayed in the projection nodded sagely. "Very well. We have presented ourselves to them, and they have made no objection. You have noted the probe?"

'Falanamee glanced at his second, who nodded in confirmation.

"Indeed. The object has scanned our vessel. The technique was quite unlike any our Maintainer has every recorded."

The Prophet allowed his thin lips to retract into a smile. "As I suspected, they truly are beyond us. Now, I believe it is my duty to offer some humble inquisition. The artifact and its inhabitants have made no move; their intention for us is clear."

So that's it, the ship master thought, he wants to be the one to make first contact. Surely, such a role would earn him great honor and personal validation, but it really is the ordained role of the Hierarchs.

"Noble one, perhaps we should inform _High Charity_ of this occurrence before continuing further. Surely the high ones would wish to know immediately."

The Prophet crooked a thin eyebrow and sank back into his throne, his smile fading. "Nonsense. Those aboard the artifact may wait for us now, but if we wait for the Hierach's arrival, they may take offense at our lack of attention. No, we must make contact now. I assure you, soon, the whole Covenant shall know of what has happened here."

The projection pivoted, now facing the motionless starship. "I will ply, but it would be proper to send your image as well. What could be better, representatives of the two great races united in welcoming our gods."

'Falanamee made no objection, and motioned to 'Netanimee to link his own holo signal with the Prophet's transmitter. He was becoming more and more weary as the situation lengthened, but there was little he could do to defy the word of the Prophets, even a mere functionary like Benefaction.

The ship master prepared to kneel, as was customary upon meeting a superior in such a communication, but before he could do so, the Prophet became distracted, momentarily disappearing from the Sangheili's bridge. Upon his return a moment later, the sickly grin had returned. "It seems the artifact and its inhabitants have seen fit to bring their word to us after all. It seems we are adequate recipients of the honor."

"Excellency, we are receiving a transmission as well. The Huragok are attempting to translate it into a form our displays we can process as I speak."

'Falanamee offered a small nod to his subordinate, and positioned himself to face the main projector array, which was flickering with bands of static as the technicians hurriedly filtered it into the system. As the display began to solidify, he knelt in respectful prostration, and the other three Sangheili on the command platform followed suit. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the Prophet was doubled over on his floating platform; a position usually reserved for the audience of the Hierarchs. _So he truly believes…_

At last, the static cleared, leaving it its place a flat, glowing white disc. On its surface was lightly imprinted a graceful, simple form, like that of an avian with wings outstretched. Slowly, it began to spin, and with each revolution, flecks of black and gray appeared on its surface. Soon, two thin bands of darkness encircled the disc, parallel and vertical. They began to rotate the object in concert with each other, but the disc itself became motionless.

For a while, it simply floated there, slowly circled by its two bands. Finally, a thin, awed voice broke the silence, that of the Prophet. "Your attention honors us, radiant one. Tell us, are you of the gods? The Forerunners?"

'Falanamee heard the sharp intake of breath from a member of his staff; all were undoubtedly enraptured by what they were witnessing. The ship master, however, remained unimpressed. He knew that he should feel awed and joyful, but something was still nagging him. This felt… wrong.

The object did not break its silence, and the Prophet seemed to suddenly be growing uncomfortable. Why did it not respond? Then the voice came.

It was soft, yet so deep and powerful that it resonated throughout the entire overbridge dome. "That name is not familiar. Gods? Perhaps. What are you?"

The Prophet seemed under whelmed by the response, but pushed on nonetheless. "We are of the Holy Covenant. We live by the word of the gods, those who left this plane so long ago."

Again, the object paused, although the silence was shorter this time. "This place? Yes, we were once of this place. You are those we left behind?"

"You are the gods!" The Prophet had raised himself from his prostrate position, forgetting decorum in the face of his elation. "Our empire exists to please and serve you. What is your whim? What may we do to prove our worthiness to accompany you into paradise?"

"Paradise?"

"Yes, the existence beyond the Great Journey. Your living conduits, the Hierarchs, they have told us of how you will reward all of the true believers."

There was a pause. "These… Hierarchs. What do they say of us?"

The Prophet of Benefaction at once launched into a version of holy Covenant dogma, but 'Falanamee was no longer listening. Something about the last statement seemed odd to him. Not the content, perhaps, although it was unusual that the Forerunners would not know of their greatest servants, but more than that, there had been some kind of distortion in the voice. None of the others assembled seem to have noticed, but there was crackle behind the words, familiar somehow.

When the Prophet had finished his explanation, there was another pause, this one longer than the first. The emptiness persisted, and at last, the Prophet was forced to speak up, sounding confused. "Have I displeased you, great ones?"

"No. You have spoken adequately. We are intrigued by this Covenant. Speak of it more."

Again, the Prophet launched into a lengthy, prideful speech, unfazed by the question. 'Falanamee, however, ignored him, lost in thought. Where had he heard the sound before? It was quite distinctive, quite alien. It had been a long while ago, on the battlefield perhaps. It was static; another transmission perhaps? Images flitted through his brain, intangible and unreadable.

The work station of one of the intendant Sangheili, abandoned by its enraptured controller, began to light up, alert forms scrawling across its elevated surface. A two dimensional energy display flickered into reality, and began to rise prodigiously. Though command was occupied by the transmission, the Huragok below still faithfully received new data from the sensor array and transmitted it upwards, even if no one was disposed to pay it any heed. There was something out there, beyond the god's starship. Something that had not been there a moment before.


	24. Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Two

Blasted energy sink. The damn thing had been acting up since the escape from the Hoth system, and despite all efforts to fix it, firing the upper quad cannon always triggered its quick degeneration and eventual overload. No matter how many times he gutted the system and replaced it, the problem came back. Perhaps the old girl was trying to tell him something.

Han Solo, face smeared with grease and eyes obscured by bulky goggles, blew out a long sigh and settled back on his haunches to survey the docking bay below. His place on the upper hull of the _Millennium Falcon_ afforded the smuggler turned general a good view of the _Republica's_ main flight deck, although at the moment there wasn't much to see, just a few astromechs and nervous-looking mechanics hovering around some of the Alliance fighter craft that lined the chamber's walls. Normally, the area would be far more lively, but Han had gathered from some commotion among the crew nearby that the ship had been on alert since it had exited that… whatever that thing that had made him black out was. Given his security clearance, Han probably could have ascertained what exactly was going on simply by patching in with ship's operations via his com link, but at the moment, the Corellian wasn't in much of a mood to care about anything but his old, battered freighter. Thinking about much else still brought up bad feelings, humiliating feelings, and Han didn't feel like being humiliated, even just to himself, at the moment.

Turning his attention back to the open panel beneath his feet, the man rummaged through a gear case next to him and removed a pair of wide radiator fins, tarnished and dinged, but still very much usable. He placed the first of them in the opening and shoved it into the slot left vacant by the part he had just removed. When he attempted to seal the fin into place however, the tool he was holding simply fizzled, doing nothing more than spraying a fine mist of sparks over his already dirty pants. Han stared incredulously at the thin, tubular implement for a moment before he realized that it was, in fact, not an electromagnetic sealer. Growling, he tossed the unneeded hydrospanner aside rose to his feet.

"Chewie, toss me the mag wrench!" he called out over the side of his starship, down to an unseen assistant. A brief moment later, another tube, boxier than the first, sailed up from below, smacking into Han's chest and landing awkwardly on the crook of his left elbow. The man let out a grunt of thanks to the Wookiee below before hunching down to return to his work. However, before he thumbed the ignition switch on the device, Han looked back up, sliding the goggles obscuring his vision onto his forehead. Two men, one of them in an unusually flamboyant uniform, had just entered the docking bay, and had paused to close and seal the entry bulkhead. Han wasn't too knowledgeable of Alliance shipboard procedure, but on Imperial warships, only security could lock down an entry point with prior notice or emergency. And the pair below definitely weren't security.

As they started to move again, Han noticed that one of them, a tech (by the look of his uniform) holding a non-descript case in one hand, was walking very close behind the other man, careful not to let his arms stray far from the small of the leading man's back. Though he wasn't speaking, and was too far off for Han to get a good look at his face, the leading man seemed quite uncomfortable and stiff.

Movement in his peripheral vision caught Han's attention, and he glanced over towards the shielded exit port, beyond which space looked as empty and cold as always. Several humanoids, most probably marines or security by the look of them, had suddenly appeared near the port, and were quietly weaving through the scattered elements of the _Republica's_ fighter complement towards the other new arrivals. Eyes narrowing, Han cast off his goggles, tapped his belt to make sure his holster was occupied, and climbed down the _Falcon's_ side, dropping the last meter. Chewbacca, who had been reattaching a plate of armor to the starship's docking ramp, looked up in mild surprise, mouthing a question.

"Something's going on," Han replied, nodding across the docking bay. "And I don't think we want to miss out on it."

The shaggy Wookiee looked nonplused, but put aside his welding tool anyways and moved alongside his human companion, hunter's eyes carefully appraising the large chamber.

Han in the lead, his right hand hovering over his hip holster, the two rounded a nearby Y-Wing, which brought them out into the relatively clear liftoff lane that dominated the bay's center. Across the chamber, the suspicious pair were quickly skirting along a crate-strewn wall, both looking extremely nervous. The suddenly apparent marines, at least five of them now were surreptitiously forming a cordon near the atmosphere shielded exit portal, careful to stay behind the various starfighter hulks to obscure themselves from view.

Chewbacca growled in warning.

"I see 'em, Chewie," Hand replied, not taking his eyes off the listless pair. "Whatever this is, it's big."

The two distant men rounded a pile of empty fuel casings, and the paused, the one in the rear drawing even closer to the oddly-dressed one. He seemed to whisper something in the others ear, and then, with a jerk, they were off again, this time headed towards Gallofree light passenger hopper, a small, unarmed shuttle equipped with a famously reliable hyperdrive. Han had scavenged parts out of them for the _Falcon_ before, and he knew the model fairly well; if one was attempting a hasty escape, the little craft would serve quite well.

The two Humans, now moving almost at a run, were almost to their target shuttle when the previously sealed bulkhead sprang open with a loud squeal and a dozen armed soldiers poured into the landing area, their weapons drawn and ready to fire. As the few techs who were still tending to the fighters sprang out of the way in agitated bewilderment, one of the soldiers, a middle-aged man with a knotted ponytail rushed up to the front of the squad, his own rifle quickly coming to bear on the nervous humans. On the other side of the bay, the other marines took this as a signal, and stepped out in the open in front of the fugitive pair, their own blasters ready to fire. The supposed technician took action immediately, dropping his case and grabbing the man in front of him by the neck, roughly pulling him up against a nearby supply crate, a blaster pistol now apparent in his hand.

The gruff leader of the reinforcements came to a halt ten meters from the cornered pair, his troopers fanning out around him, their weapons still primed. "Stand down, Flitch," the ponytail human said, pain and resentment etched in his voice. "You're outnumbered and surrounded. We've been tracking you for the last few minutes; you don' have a chance of getting out here. Now, lay down your blaster and let that man go, or my men will open fire."

Flitch backed closer to the wall and jammed his pistol into the other man's back. The oddly uniformed man let out a small whimper, and looked as though he was about to faint. "Come on, Major. You wouldn't shoot one of your own men." Flitch's words were surprisingly icy and sharp, coming from such a young, smooth face, although the cold look in his eyes hardly made the tone surprising.

"Don't bother, Imperial. The only reason my men didn't shoot ya as soon as you were spotted is because you have intelligence that may be useful, and the captain would rather not make the maintenance droids peel your corpse off the deck. Still, that won't stop 'em for long if you don't lay down your weapon, now. They've been anxious for a bit of vengeance since Sullust." The major was right; every one of the Alliance security officers was ready to perforate the infiltrator with particle beams the instant the order was given.

Upon hearing the man's identity, Han Solo whipped his DL-44 from its holster and moved swiftly to join the ranks of the security officers. He wasn't about to allow any blasted Imp spy to escape, especially since he probably held information on the crew, and Leia. Besides, the Corellian still had a small debt to settle for an old friend…

Flitch's gaze flashed from rifle muzzle to blaster barrel, from hardened Rebel face to face, and his jaw contorted into a tight grin. "I know what you all are. Filthy, bleeding-hearted, xeno-loving cowards. Sure, you'll fight the Empire from the shadows, nipping at our heels, but when it comes down to it, you don't have what it takes. I know you won't shoot me now, not with this sniveling excuse for a man in front of me. One twitch of my finger, and what few guts he has will be spattered across your shirt." At this, the hostage squirmed, but Flitch jammed his weapon's barrel deeper into his back, and the resistance stopped.

"You see, that's what really separates us from one another, Truul. I've seen how you work; for all your bravado and cunning, you're still just like the rest of them, you can't do what needs to be done to really get the job done, whatever it may be. That's why the Empire controls this galaxy, and your pitiful Rebel Alliance is so inconsequential, a weak collection of sentimental old fools and traitors, too weak to live up to the Imperial name. We have what it takes to rule, and you don't. It's that simple. And it's why you won't kill me now. People like you can't stomach collateral damage."

Truul laughed, mirthless and bitter. "I don't know what I ever saw in ya. Heck, I don't know what in the Imps saw in you for that matter; can't even make a stand without trying to comfort yourself with Imperial jabber and nonsense." He leveled his blaster at the infiltrator's head, sending fresh quakes through his hostage. "Not very perceptive either. Hostage or not, if you don't drop that pistol right now, I'll take off your head 'm self."

The two glared at each other for a long moment, and beads of sweat began to form on Truul's brow. His lower lip quavering, the Imperial weakened his grip on the pistol fractionally. "Perhaps you're a bit stronger than I had thought. Still, I wonder, are your convictions as steadfast as Charen's were? If not, I'm afraid your bluster is a bit hollow."

Truul was momentarily perplexed by the message, and before the infiltrator's implication dawned on him, Flitch kicked lightly at the case lying at his feet. The impact knocked open its top flap, and a remote panel tumbled into view. "You were always slow."

He stepped on the device.

Far beyond the confines of the crowded bridge, another explosion rocked the battered Mon Calamari warship, jarring everyone present from their amazed audience to Cortana's dangerous deception.

"Report!" Ryceed demanded, clenching her teeth angrily.

Sensor and operations officers feverishly received and applied reports from across the ship's monitoring grid, but in the brief moment it took them to collect and deliver the data, the captain realized that something had gone very wrong, again. The two Covenant warships had not fired upon them; they sat in the space beyond the _Republica's_ bow, still enthralled with the AI's attempt at godhood. Flitch must have struck again, or worse.

"Sir," one of the sensor officers called out, his voice wavering slightly. "I'm picking up three contacts to starboard; an Imperial Star Destroyer and two frigates."

Ryceed's eyes widen in shock, and she shot an angered glance at Data and the other Federation officers. "How could they have followed us?"

Before Data or any of the others could respond, however, Ryceed had turned her attention away from them, and was furiously drawing projectors away from the alien fleet and towards new arrivals.

"Shield status!" Commander Gavplek demanded, moving to coordinate the command crew against the renewed threat.

"Holding at sixty percent capacity, commander. The first shots from the destroyer must have been underpowered from the transition through the wormhole. It looks like their ships suffered some damage from the passage, but they're still operational."

"I'm picking up a power spike from the destroyer's forward batteries."

Another explosion rocked the hull, this one more powerful than the first.

"We have to get out of here. The _Republica_ can't withstand that kind of firepower for long in her current state." Gavplek watched with mounting concern as tactical displays lit up with more contacts, the Star Destroyer's fighter complement.

Ryceed nodded, and turned to the projector Cortana's image had previously occupied, which now generated a hastily modified version of the Rebel Alliance crest, torn from the warship's communications computer to serve as an avatar for the "Forerunners". "Cortana!"

The image flickered for a moment, but did not disappear, and the captain could still discern the voice Cortana had concocted below the din of battle. Not willing to allow her any time to finish the game, Ryceed jabbed a few com controls, and the image abruptly disappeared. A moment later, Cortana glimmered into view, looking irritated and concerned. "I just lost my connection. What's going...?" She paused, reacting to something Ryceed could see. "Oh. Imperial entanglements again."

"I need full power back _now_! Get your man out of there, with that bomb."

Not wasting time with a reply, Cortana closed her eyes and reached out through the ship's systems once more, quietly hoping that things were not going as badly for the Chief as they usually did in situations like this.

_Perfect._

Evidently, the Spartan super soldier reflected as he hung a dozen meters in the air by his fingertips, he had overreached a little bit. While inspecting the third of the injector pylons, he must have been careless, and loosened the grip on the column with his legs in an attempt to get a good look at the far side. Of course, he hadn't been anticipating the tremor that disrupted his half-ton balance and sent him over the curve of the pillar, nearly to the floor below, but that wasn't a good enough excuse. Nevertheless, he was in a situation now, and agonizing over how he got there would do no one any good, least of all him.

Ironically, the mishap had yielded unexpected results, as his spot light now rested upon a small, boxy object sealed to the column that the Chief was reasonably certain did not belong there.

Though the device was easily within reach, he was now faced with a dilemma; he could try for the likely bomb and achieve his objective with efficiency and speed, but doing so would mean that he would have to support his entire half-ton weight with a single hand. The fall, should he lose his grip, would probably not kill the Spartan, but it would be extremely unpleasant, and he wasn't sure how quickly he could recover from it. Irregardless, it would extend the length of his mission markedly, and time was of the essence now. There was nothing for it.

Inhaling deeply, the Spartan tightened the grip of his left hand. Enhanced bone and titanium servomotors strained, but the durasteel did not give way. Gritting his teeth and cursing the progression of armor technology, the Chief closed his eyes and tried again, pumping his left arm for all it was worth. With a brittle creak, small grooves formed on the pylon's surface. Again, the Chief strained, and the deformations deepened. After a few more seconds of effort, there was a clear, hand-shaped indentation in the tubing, deep, but not deep enough to compromise the tube's integrity.

Struck with the odd feeling that time was running out fast than it had been moments before, the Chief decided to test his hand hold, and slowly loosened his right grip. The Spartan swayed slightly as his bulk readjusted, and grunted to cope with the sudden, massive weight on his left arm, but he felt solid, and immediately turned his attention to the box.

It was only slightly larger than his hand, rectangular and featureless, save for two, small lights that blink a soft blue on one side. Careful to upset his balance, the Chief tapped on the device, testing for a control panel, but found none. Not eager to tempt fate anymore, the Spartan braced himself yet again, and attempted to call out for Hessun, who was still somewhere below, investigating the lower area of the chamber. However, as soon as he attempted to for, the first word, the Chief realized just how precariously he hung from the pylon. Even the small movement of his center mass required for him to place his lips near his helmet's voice amplifier was met by an uncomfortable creaking sound from the hand hold he had formed. Determined, the Spartan tried again, but this time, he felt his left hand actually slipped a millimeter.

Before he could formulate another possible course however, a sensation erupted in his brain, like cold fire, and his focus began to faze in and out momentarily. _Cortana was coming._ He attempted to brace himself for the usual sensory progression that heralded her return, but he felt that the initial shock had already unsettled his grip again, and this time it wasn't just by a millimeter.

As he felt himself begin to fall, time slowed down, as it often did in combat situations. Though his mind was clouded by Cortana's insertion process, he could still think clearly enough to know he had two options. Fall with the device, and risk detonating it, or fall without it, and risk taking the time to remount the removal attempt. He was prepared to go with the later option, to reduce the chance of detonation, but in the last instant before he slipped off entirely, an emotion manifested itself, harbinger of the AI's coming. Urgency.

An indeterminate amount of time later, probably not very long, the Master Chief was able to will his eyes open, and was met by the concerned (he presumed, Mon Calamari weren't the easiest species to read) face of Commander Hessun. "Are you… alive?"

Shaking his head to clear it of post-fall static, he hefted himself up onto his knees, and a wave of pain swept over him. Decades of intensive training allowed him to immediately shunt away most of its effects, but enough irritation remained to make it clear that he was probably bleeding somewhere under his suit. A normal man's body would have been shattered, a fact that likely had triggered the alien's consternation, but the Chief was largely unscathed, he hoped, and was able to rise to his full height with only a certain amount of numbness.

"More or less."

Feeling some weight, he glanced down at his right hand, in which rested the rectangular object, thankfully still completely intact. "I've found the infiltrator's explosive."

Hessun inspected it briefly, confirmed it was indeed what they were looking for, and placed it in a padded and armored satchel he had been carrying with him for just such a task.

As the Chief stretched his fingers to ensure that they were still functional, he noted the odd static in the back of his head, and felt Cortana's presence. The maintenance field was still distorting her connection, but her intent was quite clear. "Come on, let's get out of here. I have a feeling your captain will be needing this reactor pretty soon."

"He's found it."

Ryceed offered a hasty nod to the again manifested AI and turned to her XO. "Restart the reactor core immediately. Dump every joule we've got into the shields, and get our sublights back online. We've got to get out of here, now."

"You'll have full power in two minutes, Captain."

"One minute. We won't last long this close to that destroyer, and the Republica certainly can't fighter her off, not now." To compound her point, another series of detonations rattled the bridge as a wave of TIE Bombers made their first pass over the ventral hull.

"Sir, if we do that, the damage to the hypermatter reactor could be…"

The captain cut him off with a slashing gesture. "There's no time! We can worry about repairs later, just do it!"

Gavplek moved comply, the concern on his face erased by another explosion against the deflectors that nearly knocked him off his feet.

Ryceed wasted no time in turning to the wormhole station, where the Federation and Alliance crews still worked feverishly, typing in long strands of code and watching accelerated projections flash across vid screens.

"Can we go back through?"

Geordi ducked past a human lieutenant to assess a new stream of code that one of Data's computer models was generating. "Three minutes, captain. We almost have it."

Picard, still close to the action, perked up at the mention of the wormhole, his previous concerns surfacing. If the Imperial ships had somehow managed to follow them through the first time, what would stop them from doing it again? "Data, what about…"

New warning klaxons rang across the bridge, and a sensor officer called for the captain's attention. "Sir, were picking up energy spikes from the alien vessels!"

"Angle reserve deflector power forward! Brace for impact!"

"No, sir!" The officer looked up and out the main view port in astonishment. "They're not targeting us."

Across the hulls of the sleek, turquoise starships, bulbous nodules turned their emitters towards forward and began to emanate a bright glow, one that quickly swelled and focused into the barrels at their fronts. Then, all in concert, the nodules released the charge, huge clouds of voluminous purple flame that hurtled through space, spreading long strands of superheated plasma in their wake. Though they moved at a rate slower than turbolaser bolts, the dense clouds moved quickly and inexorably, finding their marks with unerring precision. The first of the shots passed close to the _Republica's_ battered nose, exciting it's already excited energy barrier, but clearing it with dozens of meters to spare. Instead, the blasts swept directly into several squadrons of Imperial starfighters, washing over them like a tsunami. The outlying flyers were able to spin away and regroup, but half a dozen, distracted by their original prey, were taken unawares, and evaporated into the cosmic nothingness, leaving behind nothing but their component molecules.

Another group of plasma fireballs hurtled towards the largest Imperial vessel, the Star Destroyer, which was still focusing its assault upon the Alliance warship. The first shot missed, grazing its knife-like forward tip, but another three slammed directly into the destroyer's terraced face, sending sheaths of white light across its bow as the ship's shields absorbed the blow. As the residual plasma discharge cleared, the destroyer remained, its defenses unbroken, but the fire from its turbolasers faltered as the bridge crew frantically analyzed the new threat. The pair of Covenant vessels allowed it no time for inaction, however, and began to move forward, new clouds forming in the barrels of its heavy guns, and smaller emplacements coming alive with bursts of silver light that cut through space, rippling across the hull shields of the Lancers and harrying the remaining TIEs, which were now engaging wing after wing of Seraph fighters, pilots eager for combat. Around far off Reach, the vast Covenant armada began to rocket out of orbit at full burn, summoned by the colorful heralds of battle.

Recovering from its surprise, the crew of the wedge-shaped battle cruiser began to come about, away from its former prey, angled nose coming to bear on the offending alien warships. As turbolaser gunners took in their new targets and primed their weapons, TIEs and Seraphs began to erupt into brilliant fireballs as they exchanged energy fire across and around the adjacent Mon Calamari ship's hull. Targeted by three of the H-shaped fighters, a Seraph lost one wing, and then another under a hail of green bolts, and careened towards the light cruiser's imposing form, its pilot incinerated by the attack.

The expected explosion, a wall of flame and light to end all pain and thought, did not come. Flitch, who had closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in anticipation of the final blast, was the most surprised of any of those opposed in the hangar bay. Feeling no pain, none of the nothingness he expected to follow it, the infiltrator snapped open his eyes in time to see the marines recover similarly. Pausing only a moment to ensure that he still had hands, and a weapon in them, Truul aimed his blaster barrel past the hostage's head, picking the Imperial's sweaty forehead as his target, and tensed his trigger finger, willing it to pull.

Then the detonation came.

There was no fireball or rain of burning shrapnel, however, simply a bright light and a concussion that knocked everyone not leaning on something for support to the floor. The bay's energy shield flickered as melting particles of starfighter armor bounced off the outer deflector. Dazed, but still on his feet, thanks in part to his awkward hostage, Flitch was able to collect his wits fast enough to see that everyone around him was on the floor, reeling from the impact. Barely thinking, the infiltrator gave his case gave his case two more precise kicks and then broke off in a half run, still dragging the stunned man with him.

First to recover, Han Solo hauled himself up on the form of one of the struggling security officers and took aim at the fleeing man with his blaster pistol. He squeezed off a shot, and a wall plate several meters ahead of Flitch exploded outward, spewing hot shrapnel.

Han lined up another shot, but was interrupted by the wail of his Wookiee companion, who was pointing frantically at the discarded carrying case. Another object was now in view alongside the detonator control, larger and boxier, and sporting a single, flashing blue light. Truul, scrambling to his feet, saw it too.

"Scatter!"

The nearby marines complied without missing a beat, throwing themselves behind landed starfighters and supply crates, any cover they could find. Han felt a pair of powerful hands grab his shoulders and yank him behind the nose of an A-Wing an instant before the box exploded, turning the floor around it into a puddle of melted durasteel.

As the thick, acrid cloud of melted metal began to clear, a loud whine filled the hangar, drawing Han's attention to the nearby passenger hopper, whose docking ramp was already closing.

"Stop that ship!"

A dozen blaster rifles and pistols opened up at once, smacking into the shuttle's worn hull, but only a few of them managed to scorch it before a shimmering veil appeared over its surface, absorbing some of the fire and reflecting the rest into nearby bulkheads. Despite the obstacle, Truul's soldiers continued firing, but the shuttle lifted onto its repulsors without impediment, and the sort vessel began to maneuver up and over the other parked ships, pointing its stubby nose towards the energy field and space beyond. With surge of thrust from its boosters, the vessel rocketed away, passing through immaterial barrier without pause and heading into deep space.

Eye's still fixed on the quickly disappearing ship, Truul screamed into his comlink. "Bridge, I need a tractor lock or weapons fire on that shuttle now!"

"_Were a bit busy up here right now, Major."_

Busy? The Imperial bastard was getting away! Truul was about to scream back into the link when he, for the first time, noticed that the shuttle was not the only ship visible beyond the permeable field.

The first of the Star Destroyer's new wave of emerald bolts cut through space like a storm of glowing meteors. The first two of them went wide, but other hit their mark, cutting into the smaller of the Covenant vessels with blinding energy. Shimmering energy fields appeared to repel the blow, but as soon as they met the incoming force, they melted away, overwhelmed by raw power. Unimpeded, the green blades cut into the hull, sending huge gouts of flame and tarnished metal into space. One of the bolts managed to punch all the way though a thinner section of the ship, spewing a geyser of unexpended energy out the other side.

Unperturbed, the pair of ships kept up their own fire, focusing on the closer of the Lancer frigates, which was beginning to pick off Seraphs with its numerous anti-fighter batteries. Six plasma torpedoes impacted it nearly simultaneously, causing its shields to surge and weaken, but leaving the ship intact. Even as the Star Destroyer launched another hail of turbolaser shots, the smaller Covenant ship fired more torpedoes at the Lancer. The second ship, however, paused, its heavier weapons momentarily silenced. Then, from its curved bow, a pinprick of white light erupted into view for a millisecond before surging forward at impossible speed, reaching the frigate almost instantly. The beam, less than a millimeter across but extremely brilliant vide against the starship's weakened deflectors for a single second, and then pierced them, plunging into the ship's forward most point, just below the slanted bridge section. Finding its target, the beam wrenched upwards, slicing through dozens of meters of durasteel and then up out of the ship, dissipating as it hit the shield wall again. It its wake, the weapon had left a blackened line that bisected the full length of the ship, from its center line to upper hull. The frigate's sublight engines began to pulse erratically and its weapons batteries ceased. A moment later, explosions erupted from every hole in the craft's armor plating; its core had been compromised.

As fire belched forth from its tender vessel, engulfing the frigate entirely in an obliterating explosion, the Star Destroyer let loose a new volley, this one fiercer, an avenging blow. Miniature suns erupted across the smaller Covenant ship's hull, burning away tons of hardened armor and machinery in seconds. Again, it returned fire, but this time only with a single turret, as the rest were being engulfed by rifts and explosions that were racing across the starship's once beautiful surface.

The larger vessel, spewing dozens of point lasers and torpedoes at the destroyer, moved to cover its comrade, but the rate at which the ship was losing mass into space indicated it would not maintain structural integrity for long. As a new wave of turbolasers plied the void, intent on finishing the kill, beyond the dueling colossi, the tubular drives of the _Republica_ began to come to life, blue light surging from them once more.

From the tinted cockpit viewport of his commandeered shuttle, Flitch stared in confusion and awe as the Imperial Star Destroyer and the opposing vessels, ones quite unlike he had ever seen before, traded volleys of blistering energy. He felt a small prick of pride within his chest as a turbolaser bolt punched into one of the enemy ships, already heavily damaged, and it exploded with terrific force, causing the photo-sensitive cells in the transparisteel screen to darken. His reverie was short-lived however, as the sensors picked up dozens of fightercraft trying to outmaneuver each other in a deadly dance close by. Not eager to have his mission culminate with the accidental destruction of his escape shuttle by a random particle beam, the infiltrator set course for the Imperial warship and its Lancer escort, extremely convenient safe harbors.

As he tried to remember the recognition and docking codes he had buried in his memory so long ago, Flitch spared a glance towards his unwilling passenger, who was in a miserable heap against the rear wall of the cockpit, shivering. The Imperial agent flicked the barrel of his pistol at him. "That's right; you stay there like a good boy. I'm sure we can find you a nice cell, warm on that Star Destroyer when we arrive. There's always room for Rebel collaborators."

The hostage stared up at his captor hopelessly, and nudged closer to the wall in a vain attempt to put some space between them. Fitch snickered and turned his attention back to the navigation display, but as he began to reprogram the ship's passive transponder with an Imperial code, a shiver ran down his spine. There, in the hallway that leads to the cargo hold, something hadn't been right about the air. It was… shimmering.

_Hiss. _

Flitch spun away from the controls and ducked at the same time, blaster in hand. An instant later, the interface he had been using exploded, slashed through by a long triangle of pulsating energy. Rolling onto the floor, the human raised his weapon and fired two shots into the nothingness from which the scythe emanated. One of the blasts harmlessly scorched the wall, but another was stopped by something beyond sight. Like a ripple on the surface of a calm pond, the empty space gave way to a tall, humanoid form, hunched over and bearing down on him, energy blade raised high.

Flitch scrambled away again, towards the hallway, just in time to avoid the cut that dug a deep gouge in the floor plate. Another shot, and the rippling form became clear at last, a towering mass of sinew, dark flesh, and armor. It took the hit in its chest plate, but continued forward totally unfazed, lunging to strike again. Flitch felt a searing pain slash his right leg, but rolled away again, firing at where had been a moment before. The red bolt impacted the alien's right forearm, and the energy blade clattered to the floor, but there seemed to be no real damage done, as the attacker whirled gracefully around and lunged forward again, huge fists like hammers.

Frantically, Flitch began to scramble down the hall, firing his weapon three times in quick succession. Whether it was nerves failing him, or an unerring skill on the part of his attacker at interpreting his body language, all three of the shots missed, and the alien charged unimpeded. Knowing he had about a second before the thing reached him, and with nowhere left to run, Flitch manage to squeeze of a fourth shot, the weapon's muzzle now only two meters from the attacker. The red bolt hit impacted just above the left eye, slicing through some unseen barrier and burning into the creature's silver skull cap. Roaring in rage and pain, the alien brought both fist to bear upon his target, and Flitch flew backwards into a sealed doorway with bone-cracking force. He slumped into a heap against the wall, his fading, blood-filled vision noting the creature looming over him one last time before the world slipped into blackness.

Breathing heavily, the Arbiter stared down at the human, his hands still balled up, prepared to crush the infiltrator into pulp. Instinct told him that it was the right, and justified thing to do, and had the man still been conscious, he almost certainly would have stained the floor with human blood, but looking down on the prone form, something stayed his hands. Arms trembling, he slowly disengaged his fists and brought the shaking finger to his face, as if searching them for the source of his restraint. Finding no answer, and feeling a pain rising on his brow, the Arbiter blew out a long sigh, and turned from the defeated foe.

Removing his helm, the Sangheili was able to fully discern how much damage the last bolt had done, and how close it had come to killing him. The cap was nearly cloven in two, and his brow likely held the same appearance, if messier. The scar would likely be permanent.

Casting aside the useless bit of metal, the Arbiter stalked back into the cockpit, where the hostage, Reginald Barclay, still sat, looking up at his savoir in amazement. The human tried to form worlds, but the alien by passed him with no more a cursory glance to ensure his enacted state and moved on, leaving Barclay with silence.

The navigational controls were ruined, and the ship had already lost attitude control, drifting dead and rudderless in the blackness. They weren't going anywhere on their own power. However, none of this bothered the Arbiter at the moment, not had it even intruded upon his thoughts, for he was wholly transfixed upon a shape far beyond the confines of the shuttle, distant but recognizable through the viewport. The remaining Covenant starship, lit by its own weapons fire, and that of the Star Destroyer it was locked in combat with.

"Ascendant Justice." The alien's mandibles quivered with nameless emotion. "My old ship."

Teno 'Falanamee watched impassively as the white lance of energy ran across the enemy vessel's hull, leaving no mark other than the shimmering of an impenetrable barrier. This foe was beyond them. From the moment the enemy's weapon had passed through their shields as if they were nothing, Teno had known that he, and his crew, would die on this field of battle. The Prophet, so brash in ordering the defense of the supposed god's artifact, had doomed them to that fate, and he had already paid his share.

As green bolts pierced the hull of the mightiest ship in the Covenant armada as if it were spider webbing and concussions rocked even the heart of the warship, the Ship Master could at least feel pride in his crew. Not one of them had abandoned their stations, and Hiph 'Netanimee stood at attention, awaiting orders as always. No doubt all of them felt they were dieing for their gods, a fate worthy of any warrior. Who knew, perhaps they were; through his remaining sensor projections, 'Falanamee could see that the sleek ship the Prophet had ordered him to protect was moving quickly away from the battle, and had just spiked in energy output. As he watched it glide through space, an explosion nearby sent a huge chunk of the over bridge's ceiling crashing to the floor, crushing a pair of hapless Sangheili guards. The lights and projectors around him began to fail, but power lasted long enough for the image of the distant starship to brighten for a moment, and then disappear into the void, completely gone from view.

_I hope it was worth it. _

Another blast erupted, even closer, and all of the remaining lights ceased to function, throwing the chamber's inhabitants into complete darkness. Without sight, 'Falanamee could hear the rumble of his ship collapsing on itself all the clearer, the nervous breathing of his subordinate, the faint static left in a still functioning audio transceiver by the destruction of its corresponding system somewhere else on the ship.

Transceiver…

The sound that had played in the background during the "God's" transmission. Whenever a UNSC vessel was destroyed, and its transmitters survived in the wreckage, they would always simply broadcast static, a simple repetition of the code signal all human vessels used to communicate over. The sound and the static were one and the same. There had been humans onboard that ship.

In the darkness, a single voice rang out, a low, raspy laugh. It started as a soft chuckle, but quickly blossomed, soon filling the whole chamber with cold mirth. Soon, the noise melded with the symphony of destruction around it, and then there was no sound at all.


	25. Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Three

Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith and de facto ruler of the Galactic Empire, stood on the bridge of the Star Destroyer _Torrent_, stoically looking out into the abyss of hyperspace. He was deep in thought, as he had been his every spare moment since the late emperor's fall. For the last several hours, since the start of his impromptu voyage from Coruscant, Vader had been attempting to focus on the premonition that had summoned him from the core to a distant part of the Outer Rim. It had been an indistinct wisp of intuition at best, but the name of a system, some uninhabited waste far off any major hyperspace route, had firmly entrenched itself in his mind, and with it the sense that something of great significance was occurring there, or would occur soon. He had attempted to delve into the premonition, follow it back to its source, but he had been unable to do so, the only clue was the system's unimpressive designation.

Of course, it was distinctly possible that this inability to probe the Force further on the matter was due to the conflict that still roiled deep within him, clouding his thoughts and perception. The harder he suppressed the feelings and indistinct memories, the more persistently they intruded upon his meditations and waking thoughts. Fragments of almost alien emotions, snippets of long-shadowed recollections, faces of those he had cherished, in a life that had ended long ago.

But had it ended, really?

Vader crushed the consideration before it had time to form. No, Anakin Skywalker, for better or worse, was dead; he had killed the Jedi himself, on that day on Coruscant so long ago.

Even with those ancient recollections conquered for the moment, new worries and a tingling of doubt began to intrude again upon his solemn countenance. Executions that he had undertaken, old and recent, began to wear upon him, as they never had before. The gasping, pitiful form of one Captain Needa, slumped on the cold deck at Vader's feet, and for what? Falling victim to a clever bluff from a particularly obnoxious rebel? Was such a failure really worth the price Vader had made him pay? Failure was something to be scorned to be sure, but had he not himself failed far too often over the years? Was not every day, every minute he had allowed himself to submit to that wicked, wrinkled demon a failure in of itself?

Failure…

The blank visage of his only son, immersed completely in bacta, crossed the dark lord's crowded mind now, dispelling other worries as if they were trifles. That Luke even now stood on the brink of life and eternal nothingness, rather than standing at Vader's side on the Star Destroyer's bridge, was a greater failure than any he could contemplate. Half a decade of fevered searching, of dire plotting, of desperate, secret hope, all for naught. Even the news that he possessed a second child, a daughter out among the stars, could not assuage his anguish deep inside. For the longest time, Vader had wondered if he still had any conscience left in his burned and blackened heart, and now he knew that he did, there was no greater wish in the Sith's being than to see it dispelled forever, if only to relieve the pain it poured upon him.

And yet, through it all, there was one glimmer, one undertaking that did not carve away at his craven soul. She stood in silence behind him on the cold deck, awaiting orders, her inner thoughts her own. This former Jedi knight, Aayla Secura, one he had long thought dead in the great purges, had been his salvation. At first, he sought to use her as merely a tool, a weapon Palpatine would predict or prepare for, and she had served to that end superbly. But when he picked her wounded form up from the throne room's chamber when the battle had been won, he had felt something more from her; there was darkness, a need for control and power that could be harnessed and shaped, something he would never have expected from a vanguard of the old order. Nevertheless, it was there, and he had latched onto it, expending his energies in an effort to make an adequate minion, and more, out of the Twi'lek. It was that effort, perhaps more than anything else that had kept him sane since his son's fall.

Still, there was something in this new apprentice of his that was not right. She hid something, a secret so deep and wrenching that not even the vast changes she had undergone in the short period since their first fateful duel could force it to the surface. She had told him of her origins, of the wormhole and the starship _Enterprise_, but there was more to the tale, Vader knew it. Aayla would tell him in time, and for the moment, he would allow her to do it of her own volition. But he would know the full story, and there was nothing the woman could do to keep it from him.

A time later, the bow of the Torrent again shore through the cold void of realspace, angling into the system Lord Vader had instructed her captain to bring him to. Designated Rim 2101-831-5400 by the Imperial Navigational Authority, the star system was quite unremarkable, save for the hyperspace-disrupting gravitational effects of its primary. As his ship slipped past one of the system's ancient gas giants, Captain Meterin Coloth wondered silently if any Imperial officer had even been within light years of the desolate collection of worthless gas and rock. He certainly had not wished to be the first, but Darth Vader had "requested" the usage of his Star Destroyer, and no sane man would refuse him.

As he surreptitiously watched the Sith Lord and his Twi'lek servant from across the warship's bridge, Coloth wondered if there was some malevolent force in the universe piling difficulty upon difficulty onto his shoulders for its own twisted pleasure. He had been perfectly happy in his patrol duties along the Mid Rim, the master of his own ship and his own schedule, only being forced to second string at formal functions, which he rarely attended anyways. Politicians didn't sit well with him, and admirals even less.

But here he was, playing chauffer to the most powerful being in the galaxy, his command usurped and his own performance under continued scrutiny. Ever since the fiasco with that damned _Enterprise_, her pompous captain, and those infernal infiltrators, his nearly impeccable military record had been tarnished, and he had been recalled indefinitely to the core. True, the escape of the alien ship's command crew was not directly his fault, and he had safely turned the thousand odd lesser crew over to Imperial Intelligence, but the incident had not reflected well on his command, or his crew. It still might not have been so bad, but after his debriefing with Lord Vader, the new imperial leader seemed to have taken a liking to Coloth. Either that or this was all part of some elaborate punishment. Even being in the same room with the Force wizard was extremely unsettling, and Coloth had never been one to be intimidated by his superiors.

The captain was roused from his brooding by an approaching lieutenant. "What is it?"

The younger officer snapped to attention. "Sir, Communications is registering several Imperial transponder codes further in-system, below the solar plane."

The captain raised an eyebrow. "Our ships? The recent operation to choke off all of the Rebel's remaining bases and covert routes was high priority, but why would any sector command authorize the placements of warships here? I doubt even the Rebels have ever heard of this system."

The lieutenant had no answer.

"You've found something, captain?"

Coloth hadn't even had the slightest inkling that Vader had moved from his observation point across the bridge, but the ominous mechanical breathing that now emanated from over his shoulder made it clear that Vader's skills were not limited to intimidation and brute force.

"Yes, Lord Vader," the captain said, turning to the armored cyborg without trying to look distressed. "Imperial warships have been detected towards the interior of the system." He nodded meaningfully to lieutenant, who was similarly attempting to maintain his cool.

"The ships have been identified as the HIMS _Broadsword_, _Paramount_, and _Carida 34_, sir. They appear to be holding position several million kilometers below this system's primary."

"Set course at maximum velocity."

The officer offered a deep bow in response to the Sith's order, and sparing a glance for confirmation from his direct superior, which was immediately granted, moved off to relay the course change.

When he had gone, Coloth spared a glance back at the dark lord, who had turned his attention back to the main viewport at the front of the bridge, now framing the remote system's slowly dying star.

"If I may ask, my Lord, did you know that there were other Imperial ships in this system before our arrival?"

For nearly a minute, Vader did not respond, or make any indication he had even heard the man, and Coloth's heart began to throb with uncomfortable nervousness. At last however, he inclined his head, as if in thought. "The _Broadsword_ is one of Admiral Durnstga's ships. It was likely part of the task force that routed the remnant of the Rebel fleet yesterday."

Coloth was genuinely surprised. "Routed? I did not hear anything about such a victory over fleet channels."

Vader pivoted his nightmarish mask in the captain's direction. "The information has not yet reached official channels."

There was an air of finality in his tone that snuffed out any further inquiries on the subject Coloth might have had, and when Vader paced away, back to his former observation position and his silently waiting servant, the captain did not follow. Whether he intended it or not, and Coloth very much suspected he did, Vader's manner was quite effective at quashing curiosity and banter, to the point where it even disrupted typical military decorum. That part, at least, the captain didn't mind initially, but as his time with the dark lord wore on, he found himself wishing more and more for a pompous admiral or chatty dignitary to look after instead.

After what seemed like an eternity of sublight travel, the _Torrent_ at last entered imagining and hailing range of the other Imperial vessels, the effective range of both reduced by the proximity of the star. However, when the starship's comm officers signaled the _Broadsword_, Imperial-II class Star Destroyer and presumed leader of the task force, they received only static in return.

"Give me a visual." Meterin Coloth a stood with his arms crossed behind his back, trying to maintain an aura of control, despite the fact that Lord Vader stood close at his side, watching every move from behind his opaque visor plates.

The center section of the viewport flashed from displaying the starfield beyond to an image of the three imperial vessels, the warship in question flanked by a Victory-class destroyer and a Lancer frigate. But there was more in the image than a simple sampling of the Imperial starfleet; a huge field of debris surrounded the group like the rings of a gas giant. Blast-scoured hunks of reddish metal and metallic skeletons of unknown design intermingled with more familiar gray and black armor, with the smashed hull of an Imperial frigate quite obvious amidst the wreckage. The surviving ships also showed signs of battle, each covered in numerous patches of vaporized metal; the _Broadsword's_ terraced face was marred by several huge gashes that had been chewed through a dozen interior decks.

Coloth and his command crew were in awe; the volume of wreckage encircling the ships and the massive battle scars on the capital vessels were signs of a conflict that had rarely been seen since the Clone Wars, nearly a quarter century ago. Vader seemed relatively unfazed, although he had dropped his gloved hands to his sides from their previously crossed posture.

"Sir," an officer in the crew pit below reported. "The _Broadsword_ has sustained significant damage to their bridge section, as well as their main transmission array. It is impossible for them to respond to our hails." That much was obvious; from the amount of scarring on the destroyer's command tower, Coloth would be surprised if any of the bridge crew were still alive.

"Try to contract the _Paramount_ and _Carida_. See if we can ascertain what happened here." Coloth turned to an attending officer. "Commander Cebbe, inform the medical stations of our situation, and tell them to prepare for rescue operations."

As the bridge officers hurried to execute their duties, Darth Vader and Aayla Secura observed the scene of destruction in silence, mulling over its meaning. Both could feel uncounted numbers of confused and injured humans on the surviving ships and in the wreckage, as well as a few life forces not so readily identifiable. But more than that, there was something else about the scene; something that did not belong.

"Master, do you sense it?" Aayla ventured at last, stepping forward a few paces. "A disturbance in the Force, unlike anything I've ever felt before."

Vader did not respond, but he too felt the strange sensation, as if a thousand possible futures were colliding in the space around them, and at their center, a point of searing clarity, where the life energies of more beings than a single reality could possibly hold converged. It was a window, a rift between what was and what should be. _This is the place. This is what I felt._

"Sir, we've made contact with both vessels, and they are requesting medical assistance and aid in recovering escape pods from the wreckage field."

Coloth nodded. "Lieutenant Defruen, I want you to take command of the relief effort. Use as much of the shuttle complement as is necessary, and make sure the medical staff is ready to accept wounded."

"Sir, the captain of the Paramount is also requesting a communication with you, immediately."

"Put it through." This order came not from the captain, but from Vader himself, who was already making for the holonet comm station at the rear of the bridge, his Twi'lek in tow. Coloth gritted his teeth in irritation and followed close behind.

In the alcove, which housed the main holo-projection suite, the image of a balding human with a short beard shimmered to life. "Captain, I am grateful for any assistance…" The man trailed off when he noticed that it was not Coloth or any other Imperial captain in the projector's field of vision, but rather a three-meter giant, cloaked in black. "Lord… Lord Vader! I am honored."

"Dispense with the pleasantries, captain. I want to know what happened here."

The officer on the other vessel gulped, and then nodded to someone out of the image. "I have Commander Barden with me, executive officer of the _Broadsword_. He would be better able to explain our situation, my lord."

As Vader waited in silence, the captain disappeared and was replaced by a younger man, his right eye covered with a bacta patch. He offered a nod of respect to the Sith lord, an effort that clearly pained him.

"Tell me, commander."

"Well, Lord Vader, after we received orders from Fleet Command to begin sweeping the back hyperspace lanes for any suspicious activity, the _Abolition_ and the _Broadsword_, under the command of Admiral Durnstga and my superior, Captain Telbain, respectively, broke from our main fleet group to pursue a hyperspace ghost we had detected passing through the fringes of Hutt space, we tracked it to this system, and managed to make contact with an Imperial agent onboard before it escaped."

Barden broke off for a moment, stifling a series of coughs that racked his diaphragm.

"I apologize, Lord Vader. The agent activated a hyperwave homing beacon, which would reveal the location of the ship's destination, and the hidden Rebel rendezvous point. The admiral left the system to join an assault group and lead the attack, but he left Captain Telbain behind, to investigate an object that the Rebels had scanned before escaping, and to intercept any Rebel forces that managed to flee his assault. The object turned out to be a derelict vessel of unknown design, no life signs registering. We were about to mount a search of the ship when we received reinforcement from a small task force sent by Admiral Durnstga, and were instructed to prepare an ambush for any unidentified starships entering the system. One, a Mon Calamari warship matching the one we had tracked escaping the system earlier, appeared, and we attempted to destroy it.

"Unfortunately, the starship was able to elude the task force, by usage of some kind of anomaly that removed it completely from local space. Determined not to lose them, Captain Telbain took the _Broadsword_ and two Lancer-class frigates through the anomaly as well, despite its unknown nature. After incurring minor damage from some kind of energy feedback against our deflector screens, the strike force emerged in a star system that did not register on our navigational charts. Locating the Rebel cruiser, the captain ordered an attack, but before the ship could be destroyed, a pair of alien vessels of unknown construction or origin opened fire on our ships. Despite that fact that their weapons technology was markedly inferior to our own, they managed to destroy one of the escorting frigates, and covered the Rebel ship long enough for it to escape back through the anomaly."

"The _Broadsword_ destroyed the hostile vessels, but we were quickly overtaken by numerous enemy reinforcements, hundreds of ships, many of them more massive than our own. Captain Telbain ordered us to remain and fight, and we managed to destroy eight enemy capital ships before the second frigate was lost with all hands. At that point, a withdrawal was ordered through the anomaly, but a large portion of the alien fleet pursued. After returning to this system, we coordinated with the _Paramount_ and the remaining Lancer, and destroyed more than a dozen alien vessels as they came through the anomaly. However, before they stopped sending ships through, one managed to break through the kill zone and collided with the _Broadsword_. Most of its bridge crew was killed, including the captain. I was lucky to escape alive."

Vader considered the report in silence, and then looked back at the commander, who appeared to be breathing very heavily now. "What of the Rebel ship?"

"The _Paramount_ never recorded it coming back through, lord. It must have either been destroyed during transit, or exited at another point," the officer replied, wheezing with every breath.

"And the derelict?"

"Destroyed by crossfire during the battle, lord."

Darth Vader stayed motionless a moment longer, and then turned from the projector. "You did well to survive the incompetence of your captain, Commander. See to it that you receive proper medical attention."

"Th… thank you, lord."

As Vader walked back out onto the bridge, he found himself again deep in thought. No, the Rebel ship hadn't been destroyed; he knew that much to be true. But beyond that, his foresight failed to pierce the shadows of the future, or even the growing chaos of the present. This anomaly, this rift, had to be of the same type that had brought Aayla and the _Enterprise_ into this realm. In a way, it was responsible for all that had occurred in the last few weeks; his liberation, and his new torment. And here it was again, beckoning him into an unknown and hostile reality, and beyond that, a lone Rebel vessel, one he sensed held some great importance. But again, he could not be sure. The clouds around his inner eye were too thick, and the ravages of doubt still assaulted his senses from the deep recesses of his mind.

Perhaps some small diversion was necessary to clear away the st4ruggle within him and open the Force up to him again as it once had been, so long ago. This alien race provided the perfect opportunity, and were he to spearhead a campaign into their territory, the benefits would be threefold. Not only would it allow him to taste combat again and clear his mind of worries and the clouds of confusion, he could spread order, true order, to both the peoples of the alien realm, and to his own. He knew that many in the Empire still doubted their new ruler and his motives; unifying the people against a new common threat, alien aggressors from a foreign galaxy, was the perfect way to erase Palpatine's decadence in favor of order, Vader's order, and eventual peace. A true peace, one without the corruption that had marred all of his life. Still, a new doubt surfaced in his mind; this sort of machination was a plan that Palpatine might indulge in, and had many times in the past.

He may have been a corrupt madman, but Palpatine did know how to control the hearts and minds of the people. Such manipulation was necessary for rule, no matter how distasteful_. It is not his way, it is the way of the Sith. And I am still Sith._

Nevertheless, there were elements of Palpatine's legacy that yet needed to be fully erased. Some of his supporters, politicians, soldiers, and the Force adepts that he had bent to his will, would never swear allegiance to Vader's new order, and might even seek to undermine it. That could not be allowed.

"Aayla," he rumbled.

"Yes, my lord?"

"I have a task for you. It will be invaluable to your training."

"I shall complete it, without fail. What would you have me do?"

"Travel to the Ziost system. There, you will find another attempting to immerse them self in the teachings of the Dark Side. You will confront them, and determine were their allegiances lie: with Palpatine's order, or mine. If their disloyalty is evident, you are to destroy them. If they submit to me, you are to take them with you back to Coruscant. There, in the Palace Library, you will find a directory, which contains the locations of all of all of Palpatine's hidden fortress worlds and covert contacts. Investigate each, and determine the loyalties of those you find. When this task is complete, await my return on Coruscant, and see to it that the provisional government follows my instructions, as I will have delievered to them from time to time."

Aayla bowed. "It shall be done, my lord."

With that, Vader turned away. "Do not falter, apprentice. This is your greatest test. Succeed, and you may one day know the full power of the Sith, and the order it can bring. Fail and you die. There are no compromises."


	26. Chapter Forty Four

Part Three: Past Frontiers

Chapter Forty Four

_Darkness._

For as long as she could remember, darkness had frightened her, kept her up at night with visions of demons and stalkers creeping in the black, just beyond sight. But now…

Now, darkness was a welcome reprieve. It hid the horror, the horror that had overwhelmed her every logical thought. Without light, she could not see the terror all around, and what it had wrought. In the light, she could see the bodies, the desecrated and defiled remains of the creatures that had once been friends and colleagues. Thinking, breathing beings, now grotesque refuse, mockeries of their former selves.

One after another, they had flashed by, propped against bulkheads and sprawled out across the blood-stained floor, each one starring up at her listlessly as she ran past. It was an endless parade of horror, broken only by brief flickers of relief, a few seconds of darkness as the illumination above faded. But then she would cross into a new place, and the scene would return, cast in fresh, brutal light. And all the while, those terrible sounds, that whine and scrabble, increased and flowed over her senses, inescapable no matter how fast she fled from them.

And still, she ran. To stop, and be lost in the horror, would mean only death; she knew that, and so did those who fled with her, each of them mere shadow, overwhelmed by a myriad of dark emotions and fears. Still, they were alive, beacons in the growing chaos, and none would part with any other without being compelled to do so by death itself.

But that time came. The party of shadows could not outrun the terror all around, and its agents soon came to rein them in. There were dozens, and more, that fell upon them, rending flesh with bloody claws and gnashing teeth. Some fought back, filling the air with beams of energy and the desperate chorus of battle, but to little avail; they all fell. All save her.

Even as the demon beasts forged forward to taste her blood, an unknown hand found her and cast her into a pit of emptiness, sealing her from the slaughter with the close of a thick door. All she could do was shiver in the flickering, empty light, and listen as the last of the shadows were engulfed by sinew and terrible consciousness. Then they sought to devour her as well, but the final act of her nameless savior had granted her respite, and at long last they left, in search of other prey. She did not know how long she shivered, cold and alone, listening to the sounds of a weary, dying ship all around her, more time than a mind could easily bear. When, at last, the door was pried open and she saw a twisted visage in the doorway, she knew her turn had come, and the expected blackness had followed soon after.

_But… why can I still feel? Still think? How can I still be alive? _

At long last, the woman opened her eyes to an alien ship, in unknown company. Her vision was bleary, but she could make out the soft outline of a gently-curved, whitish ceiling above her, illuminated by the warm glow of a small light fixture, and felt oddly fresh and clean, lying on a soft mattress with a light blanket over her. Slowly, tentatively, she rose from a soft head rest to a sitting position, lifting her right hand to her eyes to clear them and gain her bearings. As the objects around her solidified, it became very clear that this was not a core junction on the _Cornwall_, the ship that had nearly engulfed her so.

"Are you alright?"

The soft, compassionate voice guided her attention to one side of the small room, where a young man clad in black sat on a low couch, watching her quietly. He was lean and cleanly handsome, and though he was clearly still in his late teens, there were lines under his brown eyes that testified to unusual experience and hardship.

She glanced down at her own white gowned body, and found that the scrapes and cuts that had been all over her arms and hands when she had last been conscious were all but gone.

"I'm…fine?" she said in bewilderment. "What happened? Where am I?"

The young man rose slowly, smiling. "You are in a recovery room onboard the Alliance star cruiser _Republica_. I am Jacen Solo, a… passenger myself. From what I understand, some of my friends and the crew located you in the wreck of a starship, and brought you here for recovery. You've been unconscious ever since, more than two days I think."

She starred at him in puzzlement. "Alliance? Is that part of the Federation? I've never heard of it."

"No, I'm afraid not. But there are a few from the Federation here, and I am sure they are quite happy to see that you recovered so well."

What was going on? Federation personnel on this vessel, of design she had never seen before? Certainly, the small recovery room was a poor sampling, but its curves were strange, almost organic; far different from any Human or Klingon design, especially on a warship.

_Organic…_

Her heart skipped a beat. "What about those creatures? The Zerg? How did I escape them? Was anyone else rescued?"

Jacen frowned uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, no. The boarding team only found you alive, and they were forced to leave soon after. Apparently, the beings that attacked you were still lying in wait in the ship's depths. They barely made it out alive."

Laura looked away and clenched the blanket that lay on her lap with white knuckles. She was the only one. All the others, Pell, Harper, Morris, they were all gone. It wasn't fair; why was she the only one? They couldn't all be gone, not after all that had happened…

As tears began to wind down from green eyes onto her cheeks, a warm weight fell softly onto her shoulders. Still adrift in waves of regret and confusion, she glanced upwards, and saw that Jacen was standing over her now, hands resting on her comfortingly. Through her sorrow, the woman felt a spring of calm and comfort rise up from deep within her and wash away the ache of empty guilt and quickly-resurfacing terror. He smiled, and weakly, she smiled back. The woman couldn't be sure what it was about the thin, calm man that comforted her so, but just looking into his eyes was enough to set her mind free of dark and confused memories, for the moment at least.

"Laura. I'm Laura."

And with that, she fell back onto the head rest, enrobed in dreamless sleep.

"At last report, sir, the crew sustained fourteen casualties, mostly minor injuries and broken bones; there was a case of severe plasma shock from one of the gunnery officers in the port turbolaser section, but the medical staff reports Lieutenant Groug as being in stable condition. There were no fatalities."

"Damage?"

"More severe, sir. External scarring compromised the hull on decks nine through eleven during transit, exposing several of the engineering reserve duty areas to vacuum. We've got two teams working on repairing the breach, but supplies are limited. There was also extensive damage to the turbolaser and anti-fighter batteries all over the port sector; engineering thinks they might be able to salvage a few of them, but the rest will need to be replaced entirely."

"How many weapons do I actually have left?"

"Two medium turbolasers, two light, one of the forward ion cannons, and eleven anti-fighter turrets. Hessun thinks his teams might be able to scrape together another turbolaser battery, but he's doubtful. At the moment, though, the tactical operations units are more occupied with getting the targeting arrays back online; they went down with the rest of the sensor array, and have been more difficult to get back up again. Most of the damage from the core surge wound up in their control nexus."

"The hyperdrive seems to have been undamaged, but the cold-start we initiated with the hypermatter reactor has reduced the amount of power that can be safely pumped into the deflectors and sublights. You've got fifty percent on both right now, and Hessun hopes he can get them up to seventy in a few hours."

Captain Ryceed bit her lip to prevent a weary sigh from emanating forth, and took the exceedingly long report Commander Gavplek was holding out to her. "Alright. See what you can do about getting those deflectors back up more quickly, and then get some rest; I'll probably need you again soon, very soon more than likely. Put Crenly on watch, and have her report to me directly if any activity, any activity at all, is detected in our vicinity, especially from that wormhole."

Gavplek saluted, somewhat less crisply than usual, and walked off to his duties, leaving Ryceed in the recessed alcove of the bridge that served as her field briefing office. She feigned scanning the report, and then tossed the bulky pad aside, turning her attention to the glimmering projection that watched her pensively.

"Was it really necessary for you to do _this_ much damage to my ship, Cortana?" the captain asked wearily. "You did so well last time."

The projection frowned. "I apologize, captain. Commander Data still didn't have the entry procedure fully initialized when we managed to escape, and I decided that I might try and disrupt the anomaly as we passed through to impede any pursuers. The energy feedback increased beyond what I had anticipated when I did so, and an unavoidable amount of damage was incurred. As I already explained…"

"What do you mean, _disrupt _the anomaly?"

Councilor Organa's question was clearly pointed, and no one in earshot missed her meaning; with sensors down and the ship barely functional, they were all trapped in unknown territory, and if the wormhole were to fall apart, they would remain so for a very long time.

Cortana shook her head. "No… well, I didn't mean disrupt entirely. The pathway still remains; all I did was scramble the ambient quardinants of the directional strands between the wormhole openings, covering our tracks so to speak. At least… I hope that's what I did."

Ryceed cupped her forehead in one hand. "What do you mean, _you hope that's what you did_?"

Near the small room's entrance, where he stood alongside Geordi, Picard, and Riker, Lt. Commander Data took a small step forward. "Captain, I believe that Cortana meant to indicate that the anomaly and it's method of operation are almost completely unknown. The information gathered from the last two passages will provide a more extensive insight into the wormhole's workings, but analysis will take time. It is prudent to consider all possible repercussions until more definitive data is available."

Ryceed glanced from one to the other, and then turned away towards a far wall, shaking her head and mumbling something about 'droids'. "Alright, alright, never mind. The _Republica_ did survive the passage at least, which I suppose is more than could be said if we had stuck around that battleground much longer." The woman turned back to the shimmering AI, who was at the moment no more than half a meter high, sprouting from a comm panel on the alcove's main tactical display. "I suppose we do owe that to you. That was quite a bluff you pulled off."

Cortana raised an eyebrow. "I'm flattered."

Ryceed looked at the image a moment longer, smirked slightly, and then turned her attention back to a display on the wall, which showed local space, or what little of it the _Republica_ could make out with its damaged sensor arrays; mercifully vacant and peaceful. For a long moment, all of those assembled around her watched the stars blink lazily on the 2D display, and reflected on what they had all been through in only last few hours, how narrowly they had avoided destruction.

"I don't think anyone will object if I call a recess to this little conference," Ryceed said at last. "Frankly, I wouldn't mind some R&R myself. I'll have someone alert you all if the situation escalates again. Councilor Organa?"

The stately woman uncrossed her arms and nodded in agreement, then turned to Picard. "Well, Captain, this has been a most… interesting day. I hope to see you and your men again soon, hopefully in light of better news."

"As do I, Council… Leia. With any luck, we're already on the Federation's doorstep, and we don't even know it."

The small party moved out together onto the main section of the bridge and made for the turbolift banks, conversing quietly and grumbling about sore feet. Suddenly, Picard stopped and turned to Ryceed, face once again furrowed with concern. "Captain, has there been any news of the saboteur? Has the major made any progress?"

Ryceed, too tired to retain any air of composure much longer, blew out a long sigh. "Yes, it had almost slipped my mind. Flitch managed to commandeer a shuttle and escape during the confusion before we escaped the firefight, injuring several of my marines in the process."

Riker, and the others, halted as well, looking back in surprise. "How did he manage that?" the Commander asked. "From what I've seen of this ship and her crew, I wouldn't think anyone could escape your security forces for long, especially not with someone like Truul leading them. Did he have help?"

Ryceed shook her head. "The details were vague, but I believe there was mention of a hostage."

"A hostage?"

"I'm 'fraid so, commander."

Unannounced from one of the newly-arrived lifts emerged a disgruntled-looking Major Truul, sporting several hastily-applied bandages on his left cheek, beneath which a patchwork of small burns and shrapnel pockmarks were plainly visible. With him was an equally gruff Corellian, who stalked onto the bridge with an oddly aloof air.

"Master Solo," See-Threepio, who had been attempting to attract as little attention as possible, said, emerging from behind his mistress.

"Han." Leia rushed to his side, but the weary look in his eyes, fresher than it had been for days, stopped her before she could embrace him. "What's wrong? What happened?"

Truul answered in his stead. "We lost the Imperial, and he took one of yours with 'm, captain. Too lucky, too fast."

Picard looked at the officer askance. "One of mine?"

The depths of stellar space are not commonly known for activity and variety, vast spheres of it rarely playing host to anything more than a few scattered atoms of hydrogen or fragments of wayward rock. A being might float forever through the blackness and never encounter a single other semblance of physicality; such is the nature of a void.

However, not all of space is similarly empty. One patch in particular, deep within a system of many names, held more than its fair share of matter. Fragments of metal and ceramic composite, circuitry and frozen coolant, some the size of a pebble, others as large as asteroids, drifted and coalesced with one another aimlessly, a silent dance for the dead; this place was a tomb. Amidst the cosmic detritus other bodies tumbled as well, countless corpses of various sizes and complexions, burned and frozen all.

And yet, not all that populated the massive graveyard was dead. Dozens of forms, dwarfed by even some of the smaller sheets of blasted metal, flitted through the haze of debris, latching onto the largest of the hulks, and then moving on again. One of these shapes, stubby and not unlike a giant beetle, passed between two colossal amalgamations of perforated metal, its purplish hull blending well against the larger bodies as it agilely avoided a charred lump of corroded magnetic coils that drifted in the small ship's path.

Bearing no indication of its method of propulsion save for a faint blue glimmer that emanated from a pair of recessed, rear nodes, the vessel emerged from a particularly dense cloud of wreckage, and angled away from the main body of the waste, its stubby prow now direct towards a smaller collection of debris off from the main drift.

Diving through a cloud of drifting shrapnel, the ship began to slow, and an intense beam of white light shot from under its nose. The glowing cylinder swept across shape after darkened shape, illuminating bare metal ribs, smashed disks of machinery once meters wide, and even a few bodies, lacerated and seared beyond all recognition. However, the vessel did not pause to investigate any of the remnants of battle, instead moving further in, searching for something in the haze. Rounding a huge slab of battle armor, which sported a puncture nearly wide enough for it to traverse through, the stubby flyer, gleaming softly in the light reflected off the plating around it, turned its attention to a fragment of wreckage, surprisingly intact compared to the debris around it.

However, its relatively pristine condition was not the only distinction that attracted the probing ship; its angled and boxy form was in stark contrast to the other waste in the surrounding area, which was predominately smooth and sculpted, if badly deformed by the ravages of battle. The brilliant beam swung onto the derelict and proceeded to illuminate its every angle in turn; oddly narrow external hatches, weapons apertures of exotic design, a wide, open viewport that allowed little light to pass visibly through its tinted surface.

After its survey was finished, the probing ship pushed forward without hesitation and came close alongside the supposed wreck, orienting its curved belly to be parallel with the vessel's aft compartment. On a trio of mounts arrayed around its flat keel, which usually sported an equal number of large weapons systems, a grid of gently-glowing devices hummed to life, seizing the hulk with invisible tendrils of magnetic energy. The two metal forms hugged still closer together, and began to spin slowly through space in concert, inseparably bound.

Directly in at the center of the three projectors, a thick plate drew back, revealing the vessel's own entry hatch. From its circular perimeter a veil of coruscating energy pierced the vacuum and locked onto the other ship's dull white hull, then surged with electrical energy. The docking hatch, caught in the field, lit with overwhelming energy, and then blasted inward, muffled noise indicating that there was still atmosphere within.

With a loud thump, a figure tumbled from the glowing field and landed on a slightly down-slanted deck plate that lined the interior of the derelict. Waving his lanky arms to steady himself, the being began to fumble hurriedly for something hooked onto its small waist. Before it could remove the object, however, another, similar figure tumbled from the connecting beam, directly on top of the first. Squirming and squealing, the two fell to the floor and rolled across the small chamber into a bulkhead wall, their stubby limbs intertwined.

"Off!" one of them managed, smacking the other with balled fists until he managed to roll away and scramble to his feet. The other creature followed suit, breathing heavily and leaning against the wall for support as he righted himself.

"Do you always have to stand right there?" it muttered, fumbling in the dark for a similar object clipped to the bulky outfit was wearing.

"Quit yapping. It's your fault for not waiting longer." The figure that had arrived first at last managed to locate the thing he was looking for, and ignited it. A bluish light erupted from the creatures hand and threw the pair into shadowy sight; each was short, perhaps five feet tall, and stocky, their large chests and bone-spurred forelimbs an odd contrast too small waists. Above their scaly blue skin each wore an armored orange vest, with a large triangular tank sprouting from the back; connected to this container were several cords that ran over the armor and into bulky mouthpieces that obscured the creature's rounded and hairless faces. Between this mask and the metal skull cap that protected their heads, a pair of beady black eyes scanned the shadows and each other.

The second creature jabbed his right hand, in which he held a small, circular weapon with a pair of luminescent green nubs on the business end, towards the hole where the airlock had once been. "It's not my fault. He pushed me in!" The speaker's dialect was high-pitched and plaintive, more fragmented and brief than language it spoke usually allowed for.

The other grumbled something unintelligible under his mask, either about his comrade or the pilot of the waiting ship, or perhaps the world in general. "Shut up Migaw, let's just finish this quick."

Though the other grumbled in response, there was no further argument, and the pair both began to scan the interior of the derelict, each holding a light source and one of the oddly-shaped weapons. The gravity generator onboard was malfunctioning, making traversing the deck like climbing up and down a slope, but the ship's compartments were small and few, and it didn't take long for the searchers to inspect every section and computer console.

Laying down his light emitter, the alien named Migaw removed a wall panel from one wall with his burly, four-fingered hands. After making a cursory inspection of the metallic cables and boxy circuit regulators within, he turned to his comrade, who was picking at the shattered remains of a control panel at the bow of the ship.

"This isn't one of ours, Cakap. I've never seen thingies like the thingies in here before."

The other made a high, coughing noise that might have been a laugh. "You think, genius? The look of this place should have been enough of a clue, even for you." He paced past the one looking at the wall panel and began to scan the narrow, spartan hallway beyond them. "The Prophets would never let one of their holy vessels look this ugly." He paused, and looked back at the other searcher. "Of course, they did let you take assignment in the armada. I guess looks aren't everything."

Casting the wall panel aside, the Migaw scooped up his light and waddled after the other, again grumbling under his breath.

The hallway was barely wide enough to accommodate them, but it was mercifully short, with only two more doors branching off of it. The first they found locked, which, after a minute of aimless mashing and subsequent destruction of the keypad beside it, they figured was best left sealed. The second was much more responsive, and opened automatically, but beyond it lay only a darkened chamber full of unknowable machinery and displays that shown with symbols neither knew how to decipher.

"Looks like no one was on it at all," Cakap offered. "Let's go, if they want anyone to take a closer look, they can get another crew. We've been out here forever."

The two turned to leave, but the second searcher spotted something out of the corner of his beady eye, almost invisible in the darkness. "What's this?"

He crouched onto his stocky haunches and cast his light on the thing he had seen, a spot on the wall near the door they had just exited. There, several splotches of reddish black adorned the otherwise clean surface. Cakap crouched down next to his comrade, and took a look for himself. After a moment, he shot a sideways glance at the other, the gesture requiring him turn his entire head. "How do you see these things? It's not natural."

Migaw ignored him, and continued poking at the spot with a leathery finger. "It looks like blood, but not our blood. It's red, I think."

"Red blood?"

Neither of them had ever seen any species that did not belong to the Holy Covenant, the body to which every member of their race belonged, and those of many others, but he had heard tales of others; one in particular, the Humans. They were abominations, sickly pale, red-blooded creatures, godless and weak, but in groups, they were brutal and destructive, taking special care to exterminate every being that believed in the Prophets and followed their wisdom. No wonder they were marked for annihilation. But then there were other, more secret tales of Humans that were not so weak, that could kill entire armies with just a stare…

The once abrasive Cakap began to shiver with fear, and backed away from the spot, taking in the hard lines of the derelict with growing agitation. This ship was definitely not of the Covenant, and he had a feeling he knew who it did belong to.

"What's wrong?" Migaw asked, twisting his body ungracefully to look up at him.

"We must go now. Everything's done here." Cakap grabbed the tank on his comrade's back and yanked him roughly to his flat feet. The other made to complain again, but suddenly a clanking, thudding sound met their ear nodules, seemingly come from all around. The two peered through the gloom for its source, but saw only the unnaturally straight lines of the craft's interior.

"What's…"

Cakap, grasp still tight on his companion's armor, made for the entry hatch without another word, trying not to look into the shadows that loomed everywhere on the ship, each more foreboding by the last. With strength that belied his stature, he shoved Migaw into the glowing field that connected the two ships, and then jumped in after him, weapon feverishly clenched in his free fist. An invisible force clamped onto the pair and shot them up through the immaterial tube, through the void to safety.

Finding himself sprawled on a familiar, faintly purplish landing pad, the searcher who had taken charge scrambled to his clubby feet and rushed back to the disk in the floor that still was connected to the derelict beyond. Locating the blue projection on a nearby wall that controlled the exit port, he smacked a few shimmering command keys, and an iris began to close over the opening, triggering the energy bridge to being to fade. When the breach finally sealed with a hiss, the creature slumped against a smoothly-curved bulkhead and sucked a great, relieved gulp of cool atmosphere from the mask on his face.

After taking a moment to acclimate himself to the faint, tinted light coming from the low, vaulted ceiling, Cakap glanced around the vessel's main compartment with satisfaction. It was arrow-shaped, with the tip ending at the now-sealed departure lift. To either side were recessed compartments, usually stacked with war material, and between them was a large main area, where soldiers might assemble before battle. But now, it was empty, recovery missions rarely required many troops, and now there was just a crew of four; he and his comrade, along with a pilot and a system's operator, who he assumed were still up at the front of the vessel, beyond the assembly area.

Finally shedding the fear that had overtaken him on the derelict, he moved back to Migaw, who still stood where he had landed. "I might have saved you life back there; when we get back, you owe me half your food ration."

The comment was in jest of course, as he usually managed to take most of the Migaw's provisions covertly anyways, but he was still surprised when the comment garnered no response.

"What's wrong with you?"

Shakily, the other raised his right hand and pointed into the darkened assembly area, towards the back wall where the door to the cockpit was set. At first, there was nothing in evidence hidden between the blue shimmer of the room's shelled walls, but as the two approached, three prone forms became apparent.

Though a sense of agitation began to seep back into his mind, Cakap moved slowly closer, until he could make out the bodies more clearly. The first, sprawled out in the middle of the chamber, was instantly recognizable; it was a lanky, beak-mouthed creature of the Kig-Yar species, not much taller than either of the companions, with a feather-like crest sticking out of its otherwise smooth skin, the vessel's operation's controller. It's huge, pink eyes were lolling open lazily, but the slow heaving of its narrow chest indicated it was still breathing.

Beyond it, closer to the door, lay a much larger being, a meter and a half tall, covered in blue armor and a dark body suit; one of the Sangheili, and pilot of the ship. Upon realizing this, Migaw dropped his weapon, fingers numbing with confusion.

Before the implications of the alien's prone state could fully sink in, though, the pair's attention was attracted to the last of the group, propped up against the far wall. Even in the dark, they could clearly see he was different than the others, smaller than the pilot but larger than the Kig-Yar, dressed not in armor but rather some kind of fabric. Its skin was pale and smooth, and on its head was a thick growth of hair; a creature quite unlike anything either had ever seen before.

Though his mind was slow and perpetually clouded, a product of millennia of genetic engineering, Cakap could still manage to make some connections, and his mind latched onto the blood they had found minutes before, Human blood. Could this creature…

He began to back away from his scene, desperately clawing for his weapon before remembering he had left it on the landing pad. His comrade turned back towards him, visibly pained even through his large mask.

"Wha… what is going on?"

With a faint hum, the door at the end of the assembly area slid open, and there, cast into shadow by the brighter lighting of the cockpit, stood a massive figure, larger even than the immobile Sangheili at his feet. With a clank, it stepped forward into the chamber, and raised a huge hand towards them.

Simultaneously, the pair of searchers fell back onto their atmosphere tanks, yelping mindlessly in fear. Wriggling and struggling, Cakap managed to heave himself onto his side and began to crawl away, leaving his comrade to roll on the floor, barking in desperation.

The figure shook its shadowed head in exasperation. "Unggoy."

And with that, it lunged forward, fist raised high


	27. Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Five

At the very root of the titanic, forest-clad mountain, which jutted from the dry valley around it like a single, jagged tooth, a lone gate was carved into the ominous edifice of gray stone. Sheltered from the harsh, tearing winds of the outside world by towering bulwarks of rock on its either side, the durasteel barrier that spanned the meters-tall entryway was as dark and impenetrable as it had been the day it was forged. Judging by the archaic symbols and serrated patterns that were etched deep into its surface, the object was ancient, older perhaps than any artificial structure on the entire planet. Yet, for all its age, it looked studier than a Star Dreadnaught's hull plate and more resilient than a Gen'dai's pelt. Truly, it was a masterpiece of a civilization whose ways were long lost to the chaotic flow of time, perhaps for the best.

Whether or not the lone figure that stood before it was awed by the monument was impossible to tell under its heavy, obscuring cloak, but it did stare at the ancient obstruction for a long while, seemingly oblivious to the icy winds that tore over and between the bulwarks, filling the air with arcane wails and moans. However, as ferocious as the gust might get, the figure's robe was completely immobile, standing against the wind as if not even the slightest gust was harrying it.

At last, the body moved, gliding along the ground right to the titanic gate's base. It raised a right arm, and a fold of the cloak fell away, revealing a single hand, gauntleted in a long, ebony glove, unornamented and made of a material that seemed not to absorb or reflect light, but devour it, marking its own presence by the very absence of illumination. This five-fingered void slowly pressed itself against the barrier, its palm resting upon the heart of a vast, jagged mark shaped like a whirling vortex, far larger than any of the others that were cut deep into the door.

Without the slightest hesitation, the vast obstruction fell back further into its carved recess, and then slid to one side, all the while in complete silence, offering no noise to contest the howling of the wind. Beyond it, a void comparable to the one on the figure's hand gaped like the maw of a ravenous beast, the penumbra unbroken by a single flicker of sickly light. The lone being plunged into it without faltering even for a moment.

By the time the gate closed soundlessly behind, the figure was already far adrift in the impenetrable dark, but moved along without any indication of fear or indecision. The smooth, polished path it walked was clear of any obstruction, but it was winding and erratic, each bend in the walls dominated by a yawning opening, onto new paths, long stairs, narrow walkways, and open chasms. It would have been so easy to stray down one of these false trails, a single misstep sometimes was all that was necessary, but the figure kept to the main hall, seemingly oblivious to these deceivers.

After an eternity in this perilous maze, the darkness began to recede. There was no open flame of glowing fixture that might have been the cause of the growing illumination, but it was there nonetheless, a shallow, cold light, but a light nonetheless. Soon, the false passages were plainly viewable outlines in set into the walls, and soon after that, they disappeared entirely, leaving only the one path.

Presently, the winding hall straightened and widened, swelling into a vast, rectangular cavern that stretched so far upwards that its top was lost in shadow. Its walls were lined with enormous pillars of gray rock, wrapped with band after band of heavily engraved durasteel, every meter a new tapestry of some ancient battle, forgotten warlord, or cryptic incantation. At the chamber's center was a raised ziggurat of a platform, hewn of a strange, black metal flecked with red gems, each of which seemed to exude bloodied light. At its peak, a single person sat cross-legged, dressed in black and covered in silver armor, topped with triangular head warp that obscured its wearer's face. All of it save the eyes, which were closed. But they were not unaware.

"Why have you come here?" The cross-legged being's voice was cold and almost mechanical, yet possessed a fire that could not be ignored, and a very human hatred. "I sense malice, hatred, fear in you; dark energy. Have you come to test yourself, to kill me? Or is this some new test I must undergo?"

The robed figured continued forward in silence until it had reached the very bottom of the narrow steps that lead to the ziggurat's top. "Palpatine is dead," it said at last, its voice oddly warped by some unknown force.

The armored warrior's eyes flashed open and last, and it looked down upon the intruder with bloodshot eyes. "So, that is what I felt. Yes, it makes sense, only a being of such great power could release such energy in his passing." The eyes closed again, and the figure leaned back where it sat; under its tight wrappings and reflective plates, the creature still bore the shape of a female. "And what of Lord Vader?"

"He lives, and prospers," the robed one replied. "Slaying the Emperor has given him great power, greater power than before."

High above, the woman in black rose from her seated position slowly, straightening a Mynock-winged cape that fell down her back. Though she made no hostility physically, the intruder could sense that the warrior was bristling with new sensation, dangerously so.

"And what," she asked slowly. "Is your part in this?"

"I helped Lord Vader defeat and destroy Palpatine."

A distorted sound emerged from the place the woman's mouth must have been; perhaps a chuckle, perhaps a growl. "And his new apprentice, I would assume. It becomes clear; this is not a test for me, but one for you. I suppose I would make an effective target for such an exercise, although I think Lord Vader might be underestimating my powers. I have learned much since he sent me to this forsaken world to train, and I believe you will find me more than a match."

The shrouded figure shook its head. "No, I do not seek to kill you, not yet at least. The Dark Lord has stated that I might find you loyal to him, more than most others. There are many left in his new Empire that will stand against him, against the new order. I am tasked with seeking out and eliminating them before their poison can spread. If you are still loyal to him, then you would make a valuable ally."

The woman above considered. "I once swore fealty to Palpatine, it is true, but Vader was the one who made me what I am today." She clenched one fist, and stared up into the darkened ceiling. "I was once a soldier of the Empire, tasked with infiltrating the Rebel ranks and destroying them from within. But that accursed Skywalker found me out, and left me for dead. Lord Vader saved me form that fate, had my shattered body rebuilt, and enhanced my talents with the Force. I am reborn a greater being by his hand; I will be forever loyal to him, as far as the Dark Side will take me."

The woman began to walk forward, leaving the crest of the monument and lowering herself step by step, all the while watching the intruder, who still stood below in silence. "But you. I sense much conflict in you; too much. You claim to be of the Dark Lord's tutelage? Of his favor? I do not sense such things in you."

A long, silvery hilt few into her right hand, with a long bundle of shimmering wire attached at one end. "It is not complete, my new weapon, but it should be more than enough to expose you as a deceiver. You do not have to power to face me; you are not of Vader's training."

In less than half a second, the scene changed entirely. The dark warrior's weapon flicked outwards, extending the spool of wire into the air, which burst with pulsing light as it unfurled. Then she leapt downward with inhuman speed, almost disappearing from view as she lunged for her prey. Before, the robed figure leapt backwards with similar agility and quickness, conjuring a lightsaber hilt from under its robes and igniting it in a blur of bluish-white.

The dark warrior landed where the other had stood, hunched low in a predatory position, flicking the strange whip of light back and forth before her. "Even your blade speaks of your lie. It bears no markings of the Sith or the Dark Side, and I can feel that it is not even your own, you are not comfortable with that weapon. I assure you, I am quite familiar with my own."

In another blur of motion, she sprang forward again, the stand of her whip arcing around behind her, prepared to slash through the robe-wearer's immobile form. It was at that moment that the other warrior looked up, and the shadow of its cloak fell from its eyes.

Impossibly, the lunging combatant halted mid strike and sprang backwards, landing in a defensive posture, bewildered. The intruder's hood was pushed back completely now; under it were the smooth features of an attractive, blue Twi'lek woman, a face that could have belonged to countless thousands of brothel girls and courtiers of her kind across the galaxy. But this Twi'lek was different, in her eyes burned a pure, searing energy that almost made the other woman recoil on impulse. _That power, pure power. It can't be. It's not possible…_

Suddenly, the lightwhip ceased its deadly dance and glow and coiled as if by its own volition in its owner's hand. The Twi'lek's blade lowered as well, but it remained lit.

"I was mistaken," the dark woman said at last, after trying to comprehend what she had just felt. "I was misguided by my initial feelings; I can see now why Vader would favor you." She shook her head slowly, and turned back to look at the ziggurat. "If it is our lord's wish, I will accompany you on this purge. I trust you have a ship?"

The lightsaber withdrew into its casing, and vanished back under the cloak. "I did, and it is standing by." The Twi'lek turned back towards the winding corridor and replaced her hood. "We should leave now."

The dark warrior nodded, and turned to follow. "I will not regret leaving this place. Tell me before we go, though, what should I call you? I am Lumiya."

The robed woman paused again, but did not turn. "I am Aayla, but that name means nothing. All you need know of me is that I am the Dark Lord's apprentice, and I shall share in his legacy."

"You're sure you feel all right? Frankly, I would prefer it if you stayed in the Med facility until we've been able to recheck your neural and immune system patterns again. You were unconscious for an unusually long period."

The Human named Laura watched curiously as the Mon Calamari Chief Physician as his bulbous eyes swiveled independently, looking her over for any physical signs of infirmity. She couldn't help but do the same to him, and was attempting unsuccessfully to bit back a bemused smile as she did so; something about the exotic amphibian alien with its unusual eyes, stiff jowls, and sleek skin peaked an academic interest in her that had been forced into dormancy for a long time.

"No, I'm fine. I feel much better now." As she began to gesticulate to emphasize her point, the woman swayed on her feat unsteadily, causing both the doctor and Jacen Solo, who was standing close beside her to move forward in concern. She waved them off. "I'm okay, really. I've just been off my feet for a long time. A little walk would do me some good."

Jacen turned to the Mon Calamari. "I promise you she'll be back here in less than an hour so that the tests can be completed. If anything goes wrong, I'll contact this department immediately."

The doctor swiveled his eyes from one Human to another, then back again, until he turned away and waved a finned hand at them. "Your word, then. No more than an hour." After that, he seemed to forget about them, switching his attention to the numerous droids and medical techs who were attending to more than a dozen lightly injured crewmen.

The pair of Humans exited the medical chamber and found themselves in the brightly lit hallway beyond, populated by a handful of passing technicians and a lone R5 unit. The scooting droid caught the woman's attention, but Jacen directed her down the other side of the narrow path, and they set off, the young Jedi lagging slightly behind his charge, watching for any sign of waning strength. Indeed, the woman had a weary bearing, one he had seen on many people who had suffered great loss recently. However, while his Force senses confirmed this unease and sadness emanating from her, other feelings had begun to obscure them; positive emotions like curiosity, which piqued every time they passed a new crewmember or computer interface.

Jacen was impressed by this; from what he had heard of Commander Riker's recovery operation, and could sense on the periphery of her consciousness, she had undergone ordeals well beyond what one would expect from her relatively young age and smooth complexion, and yet she seemed to be able to cope with it, even in a new and unknown environment, in very alien company. She didn't even seem to be uncomfortable wearing the simple, brown tunic and pants the medics had provided out on the deck of what was plainly a war ship. And she wore the outfit rather well, he also noted…

"Which way?"

Laura's assertive voice startled Jacen from a daydream he hadn't realized he had been slipping into, and forced him to focus hard on suppressing the blush that was spreading across his face as he regained his bearings. _Control…_

He directed her to a turbolift directly before them, and, finding it empty, set it to coordinates nearer to the port exterior of the ship. The doors before them hissed to a close, and the transport sped off, leaving them in silence once again. Jacen fidgeted nervously.

"So… you never told me your full name."

"Martin. Laura Martin," she replied, brushing a wisp of russet hair from her similarly-hued eyes. She glanced up at Jacen's curious face, and then looked away absently, sighing. "Ensign Laura Martin."

The young Jedi sensed a tendril of sorrowful regret probing for purchase on the fringes of her consciousness. He cast about for something to say, hoping that conversation might put her at ease again, but she spoke again first, her attention now caught by a circular device affixed to the man's belt.

"Is that a universal translator?"

Jacen glanced down at it as well, having completely forgotten it was there. "Yes, it is. One of the ones the Federation onboard managed to bring with them."

Laura looked him over quizzically. "But, is it on? I mean, why would you need one when talking to me? You're Human."

Jacen nodded. "Yes, I am. However… well, I think there are others who could explain it better." At that moment, the lift slid to a halt, and the door opened onto a new passageway. "I'd like to say it was a funny story, but it really isn't."

Laura exited the tube, and Jacen followed soon after, pausing just long enough to blow out a long breath.

He guided his charge to the right and down a long hallway until they came to an unassuming door marked with symbols Laura couldn't read. Before she could inquire as to their meaning, however, Jacen spoke up again.

"You're sure you feel all right?" he asked, worry evident in his tone. "We can always do this later."

Laura smiled softly, and shook her head. "No, I feel fine. Besides, I want to know what's going on here; I doubt I could get anymore rest while I'm still in the dark."

With that confirmation, the young Jedi stepped forward, triggering the barrier to slid away, and the two entered the chamber beyond. It was a small and even cozy space, well furnished and well lit; perhaps an officer's lounge of some sort. Three figures populated its center; two Humans seated around a small, round table, and a very tall, very alien being standing against a wall behind them, draped in a dark cloak. All of their eyes locked onto Laura as she entered, and she paused, suddenly uncomfortable.

The Humans, a bald man in a slightly frayed and quite outdated Starfleet uniform and a woman with long, dark hair rose from their seats and approached her, smiling.

"Greetings," the man said warmly, extending a hand. "I am Captain Jean Luc Picard. This is my ship's counselor, Deanna Troi, and," he nodded at the back wall "he is High Templar Tassadar, a Protoss."

"I am heartened to see you have recovered." As the being spoke, Laura shivered involuntarily. It felt almost as if it wasn't speaking at all, but rather implanting thoughts into her mind. She knew of numerous telepathic species, but few were strong enough to emote with such clarity and power at first meeting. However, this momentary discomfort was quickly shunted aside as she returned Captain Picard's handshake, and fully assimilated what he had said.

"Ensign Laura Martin, sir," she said as cheerfully as she could manage, carefully studying his lined features. "Sir, if I may ask, did you say Jean-Luc _Picard_? Captain Picard of the _USS Enterprise-D_?"

Frowning slightly, Picard nodded. "Yes, that's right. Is something wrong?"

Laura shifted uncomfortably, and Jacen felt an odd emotion begin to exude from her; very intense curiosity, perhaps even awe. From the expression on Deanna Troi's face, he could tell she was sensing something too.

"Well, sir, I don't think so. I mean, don't you know? You've been missing in action for a very long time. No one ever expected to ever see you or your crew again after the search came up negative."

"A long time?" Deanna asked. "The _Enterprise_ couldn't have disappeared from Federation space more than two weeks ago."

Picard nodded slowly in agreement, consternation plain on his face. "Yes, I would have expected that the search was still ongoing. I'm surprised the Admiralty would give up on me so quickly…" he trailed off suddenly, recalling what Will Riker had briefed him on after the mission to the _Cornwall_, the anomalous log time stamps. _But those were errors caused by the scuttling of the ship. They had to have been._

The ensign looked uneasily from one officer to another, and then shot a glance at Jacen, who was listening with equal interest. "Sir, your ship and all her crew vanished on Stardate 45792, more than seven years ago."


	28. Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Six

"Have you been able to reestablish contact Starfleet Command yet, ensign?" Captain Koltopek asked calmly, rounding the bridge's primary tactical consol and coming to a stop behind the communications control, where the tall Human man was frowning at the display in front of him.

"No sir, not yet, but I am picking up a great deal of comm noise from sector zero-zero-one. There might be a signal from Command somewhere in there, but I'm having a hard time clearing away the interference."

As the sandy-haired man continued to recheck the signals scrolling across his screen, the Vulcan strolled away and sat lightly in his command seat, next to which the ship's second officer was staring intently out at the streaking stars beyond the bridge's large viewscreen. She offered a nod of recognition to her superior, but it was obvious that she was preoccupied with her own thoughts.

"Something troubles you, Commander?" Koltopek offered in the annoyingly banal tone his kind was known for.

Rebecca Sutton leaned back into her seat, sighing. "Well sir, I'm still somewhat nervous about this whole situation. I mean, communication with Earth goes down occasionally, but it's generally due to a transmitter malfunction or some stellar disturbance around one of the relay stations. Contact always gets restored almost immediately, the signal is rerouted and the problem fixed. We haven't been able to hail Utopia Planitia or Starfleet Command for hours. And on top of that, we haven't come within hailing range of a single other starship since we changed course, and unless I'm very much mistaken, there should have been at least three patrol craft along our course towards Earth by now."

Koltopek considered her words. "You are correct in that both circumstances are irregular. However, we are taking steps to determine why these anomalies have occurred, namely the diversion of the _Cornwall_ from her normal patrol route to the Sol system. What additional course of action do you recommend?"

After staring out into the starry darkness for a long moment, the Commander sighed again. "I think we should go to yellow alert."

The captain raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You think there is a possibility that the cause of these disturbances poses a risk to the _Cornwall_?"

"We have to be open to that possibility, sir."

Without further questioning, the Koltopek nodded to the tactical officer standing behind them, who immediately triggered several oft-used controls. The lights on the bridge dimmed slightly, burnished yellow by threat-alert panels along the walls. Another tactical display on the rear wall of the bridge showed a representation of the Steamrunner-class vessel as an invisible field of energy enveloped it entirely.

Nearby, one of half a dozen quietly working officers, Ensign Laura Martin earnestly scanned her sensor display, which was cycling through all the passive scans of nearby stars the _Cornwall_ had taken over the last few weeks. She had seen the same data dozens of times before that day, and thus the remarkably similar parade of stellar distortion output graphs normally failed to hold her interest. However, the conversation that had just occurred behind her kept her alert; the unease she felt about the situation made the statistics a welcome distraction. The captain and the commander knew what they were doing, and they were probably just chasing a false-alarm anyways.

In spite of her focus on the screen, however, Laura's mind couldn't help but wander back to the incident that had prompted their change of course. It had occurred only a little over three hours ago; near the end of her previous shift on the bridge, Captain Koltopek had been in contact with Admiral Thomas Henry at Starfleet command on Earth regarding the escort of a significant diplomatic envoy to the capitol planet from one of the outlying systems of the Federation when they had lost contact. Attempts to reestablish communications had proved fruitless, and Main Comm had determined there had been a disruption on the transmitting end. At Commander Sutton's suggestion, the Captain had ordered a change in course for earth to investigate; unusual initiative from a Vulcan, but Koltopek was known for being a bit more flexible on regulations and procedure than others of his kind.

The cutoff was almost certainly nothing, and the _Cornwall_ would likely be back on patrol duty by the end of the day, but Laura was still nervous. Earth, the political, military, and symbolic center of the United Federation of Planets had long been an unassailable bastion of order in the Alpha quadrant, until it saw two attacks in only the last few years; an incursion by a Borg cube intent on assimilating the world, which had only been repelled at enormous cost and with no small measure of luck, and then the Breen raid during the waning days of the Dominion War which almost destroyed Starfleet Command. Even with the Dominion defeated and the Borg quiet ever since, she, and many other Starfleet officers who had family on the green-blue globe, was always on edge when news of it came their way. The circumstances surrounding this particular event were all the more ominous.

After another half hour of uncomfortable waiting, the Comm and Helm officers began to pick up on more distinct signals emanating from the Sol system. Signal traffic was normal from a world so heavily populated and central to the Federation, but the volume was unusually high, and oddly scattered. Moreover, many of the individual transmissions the _Cornwall_ attempted to analyze were oddly garbled, or simply played static, as if the transmitting end had simply stop functioning properly. Even the clearer signals yielded few answers; one, identified as originating from the Miranda-class _USS Fellowship_, simply showed an empty bridge, bathed in a faintly-yellow light similar to the one that now lit the _Cornwall_'s own command center. Despite the increasingly eerie nature of the portents before them, Koltopek remained clam, ordering the helm to maintain their course and speed, and continue hailing installations and known vessels in the system. There were no responses.

Finally, the red-shirted helmsman turned to the command officers. "We're approaching lunar orbit, sir."

"Reduce to impulse, Ensign."

Even before the ship had fully decelerated and the viewscreen zeroed in on the Human homeworld, Laura knew her fears were terribly prescient. Eclipsed by the Moon to their right, set against Earth's inviting green and blue surface, a battle raged. Or rather, it seemed, a slaughter. But there were no silvery Breen ships in the midst of the fray, or swarms of Dominion beetle-fighters, or even massive Borg war machines. No, every combatant had been forged from the same mold; in Earth's high orbit, fratricide of the highest order was underway.

Dozens, perhaps hundreds of starships spat ribbons of red phaser-fire and volleys of torpedoes at each other through the void, weaving between tumbling wrecks of other vessels, already claimed by the melee. State-of-the-art Sovereign cruisers tore through obsolete Constellation-class ships, Galaxy-class vessels exchanged broadsides, Intrepid-class scouts cut through defenseless orbital space platforms. There seemed to be no sense, no order to the carnage, each starship spun and attacked like a feral beast, desperate to outlive the other.

The bridge crew of the _Cornwall_ looked on in awed horror as the colossal Earth Spacedock, once nexus of all space traffic in the system, began to explode from the inside, nuclear fire rupturing it's mushroom-cap, then spreading across it surface, engulfing the five-kilometer long installation and numerous starships battling nearby in a titanic fireball.

"Battle stations."

The Vulcan captain's clear order roused the crew from their dazed stupor, and they quickly prepped the ship for combat, priming weapons systems and activating EMC capacitors. Still, none of the others were able tear their eyes from the spectacle outside; it was virtually beyond imagining. How could the Federation have erupted into full-fledge civil war over night?

"Tactical assessment, Lieutenant Commander Simmons," Koltopek prompted.

"Yes… yes, sir," the man behind him responded, distracting himself with the task at hand. "It looks like there are fire fights like this one going on all over the system; Utopia Planitia, Jupiter orbit, numerous quadrants around Earth and the Moon. At least two hundred ships are engaged right now, although judging by the debris I'm reading, at least a hundred more have already been destroyed or disabled." He gulped. "Sir, I'm also reading significant damage to areas of Earth's surface."

Commander Sutton looked up at him in horror. "Where?"

"There's a lot of distortion from the fighting, but… it looks like San Francisco and Paris, along with at least five other cities, have been completely destroyed."

Laura had to grab her terminal to keep from collapsing onto the deck. _Starfleet Command, the Academy, Federation HQ… gone?_ _So many good people… But what about…? No, it can't be. Not them. Not there._

She felt a firm hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see another ensign, a Bajoran woman named Pell, trying to prop her up. Her face was a mask of determination, but a single tear, forming over a cheek, broke the façade. Laura tried to smile up at her, but found herself unable to do so. She had no comfort to give right now; none of them did.

Below, the commander was equally shaken, but years of command training didn't allow her to show it. "Are any of those ships targeting us?"

Tactical shook his head, racing over the readings that were flooding his screen. "I don't believe so, sir. Were outside of the general area of the battle, and most of the combatants don't seem to be looking for new targets. They're just fighting to survive."

"Prepare for evasive maneuvers," Koltopek ordered, leaning forward in his seat attentively. "Ensign, have you been able to clear through that comm interference? Can you get a hold of anyone out there?"

The officer, clearly still dazed, immediately set to his task, his fingers visibly shaking. "I'm still unable to isolate any individual signals, but we're close enough for anyone who's listening to hear us."

"Put me on general hailing frequency."

The captain stood as the comm officer rushed to comply.

"This is Captain Koltopek of the USS _Cornwall_. All operable, friendly vessels, please advise me of the situation. What is going on here?"

The only reply over the line was static. However, in the distance, three starships, a Galaxy and two Akira-classes, all suffering visible and significant damage, began to veer away from the desperate battle and towards the transmitting ship. As they began to form together in a loose, erratic squadron, an embattled shuttlecraft succumbed to a phaser hit and smashed directly into the Galaxy's wide saucer section, overwhelming its weakened shields. And still the ship pushed onward, ignoring the massive hull-breaches that were peeling away its hull.

"Are they transmitting?" Sutton asked slowly, watching the trio of beaten ships as they pushed through waves of crimson energy and volleys of errant torpedoes inexorably.

"No, sir. Wait…"

"I'm getting something too…" Tactical reported. "They're priming weapons!"

"Evasive pattern Epsilon Inverse."

The Steamrunner abruptly jerked into motion, using its main engines to guide it downward relative to its last position, and then triggered a dozen emergency thrusters on it starboard side, causing the ship to spin back, away from the fight and the attacking vessels. A moment later, a trio of burning beams of energy swept the space where the _Cornwall_ had just been, one of them glancing the edge of its shield bubble. The protective field glimmered against the blackness of space as it absorbed the blow.

"Shall I return fire, sir?" Tactical asked, clearly torn on the issue. Not even the most rigorous training courses at Starfleet Academy fully prepared its graduates for the prospect of fighting their own. Even combat exercises that pitted Federation ships against one another were generally only half-hearted. The fact that no one even knew why this chaos was occurring only heightened the tension.

"No. Divert weapons power to the shields and impulse engines. Helm, change course to 456-mark-32-mark-561 and engage at maximum impulse. When were at the minimum safe Warp distance from Sol, jump to Warp Eight, same vector."

The commander glanced at her superior in confusion. "We're retreating?"

"We have no other option. Without more intelligence on the situation, entering combat here would be unwise."

Sutton looked as though she wanted to disagree, but she said nothing more. However, it was all Laura could do to restrain herself from speaking out; there were still billions of people down on Earth's surface. Whatever was going on, someone had to stand up to safeguard them, and it seemed like the _Cornwall_ had the only sane and capable crew left in the sector. The Steamrunner had been modified for combat during the Dominion War; while not as powerful as an Akira on even footing, surely it could blow past the badly-damaged pursuing vessels without taking too many hits. There were still innocent people down there…

The bridge rocked with a powerful concussion, nearly knocking the command officers back into their seats. On the rear wall, several display panels blinked dangerously as their internal compensators tried to disperse the excess energy that had been reflected into their circuits by the impact outside.

"Phaser hit on our port nacelle from one of the pursuers, Captain! Rear shields holding at eighty-two percent. They're overtaking us."

"Divert reserve power to the engines," Koltopek ordered calmly.

"It isn't working, sir. They must be overloading their Warp cores to do it, but were still losing ground." The ship rocked again as another phaser beam raked across the _Cornwall_'s rear quadrant. "They'll have a clear firing solution with photon torpedoes in fifteen seconds. We won't be able to take many volleys, not from that many ships!"

"We have to return fire," Sutton said with icy determination, joining the tactical officer at his post. "If we take out the lead ship's engines, we might make reduce their attack potential enough to escape."

The lieutenant commander shook his head slowly. "Those ships are quite badly damaged. A direct hit on their engine nacelles could destroy any one of them." Another blast rocked the ship. "Shields at seventy percent!"

"Engineering reports damage to the secondary plasma feed!" the helmsman shouted. "We can't keep up impulse like this much longer!"

Koltopek starred at the main viewscreen, which now displayed an aft image of the pursuing vessels, each streaming towards them with animalistic doggedness, glowing with red fire each time they gathered enough energy to get off a phaser blast. They seemed not to care about hitting vital systems or slowing their prey; they just wanted to kill it.

"Sir, I'm picking up two more ships approaching from lunar orbit! They're right on top of us!"

At last, the captain broke his silence. "Evasives. Fire a full spread of photon torpedoes at the pursuing ships on my mark. Break up their formation. Mar…"

Before the Vulcan could finish his order, however, the silvery dorsal hull of a Sovereign, warship by necessity, flashed cross the viewscreen, followed closely by an older but no less dangerous Cheyenne-class, two of its Warp pylons lifeless and battered virtually beyond recognition. As the latter angled to engage the pair of feral Akiras, the Sovereign dived through a hail of phaser blasts from the larger ship and unleashed its own armament, a pair of blue-hued missiles that punched through the Galaxy's forward shields and cut into its hull, tearing massive shafts hundreds of meters deep in the scarred form. As it began to reel to one side from the blow, the Sovereign executed a rapid turn, placing it over the opposing ship's rear section, and unleashed a beam of burnished red from its oval command section. The ribbon of energy sliced the Galaxy from stem to stern, separating the hull into two pieces as it etched its way across the prone ship. Finally, the beam bisected the ship's very heart; the attacker barely escaped the shrapnel discharged when what remained of the ship annihilated itself less than a second later.

As the second vessel blew away one of the Akira's warp nacelles with a well-placed torpedo, causing its companion to stagger away from the marauding new-comer, the Sovereign pulled along side the _Cornwall_, making plain even to the naked eye that it was in a condition little better than the ship it had just destroyed; nearly twenty meters of its forward superstructure were simply absent, leaving support beams jutting into hard vacuum and a dozen decks swept clean by hard vacuum. The phaser strip it had used to finish off its last opponent was closest to the gapping wound, and seemed to not have escaped undamaged; even as the bridge crew looked on, one emitter after another began to erupt with uncontainable geysers of electricity.

"Sir, we're being hailed," the comm officer reported. "Their identification beacon appears to be damaged, but I believe it's the _USS Bucharest_."

"Onscreen."

The viewscreen shifted from the external view of the starship to its main bridge, sheathed thickly with static. There, bathed in the red light of a combat alert, stood a blue-skinned Andorian with a hastily-bandaged head-stalk that drooped unnaturally over his wide brow. "This is acting Commander Tereni of the _Bucharest_. What is your status?" His image disappeared in a haze of distortion as he spoke, and then emerged again.

"This is Captain Koltopek of the _Cornwall_. We are fully operational, thanks to your timely intervention. Why are the Starfleet vessels in this system engaging each other?"

"I'm not entirely certain what's going on either, Captain. About forty minutes ago, we lost contact with Starfleet Command, and started getting distress calls from starships and space stations across the system. Then our security chief reported an intruder alert in the main cargo bay, and we started losing contact with the lower decks by the dozen. Before Captain Jameson could get confirmation on what was going on down there, these… things, animals stormed the bridge through the turbolift shaft and killed most of the bridge crew. The security detail, myself, and a few of the others were able to drive them off and seal the bridge, but the Captain didn't make it."

"The crew was able to isolate engineering and medical too, but we had to lock off the rest of the ship. I think most of the crew is dead; we had to vent several decks into space. That slowed them down, but… but I think some of the creatures are still alive."

Commander Tereni stopped, clutching his head and shaking it slowly.

"Commander?" Sutton inquired as gently as she could manage.

He looked up at last; it was clear that there was blood seeping out from somewhere beneath his white mane. "I'm sorry… I think I have a concussion, I don't know. Um, it looks like a lot of other ships were attacked similarly, and got taken over. They started to fire on other ships at random, and on Earth too. They destroyed Command before anyone could be evacuated. The council too, I think. The last half hour has been nothing but mayhem; we've been trying to contact any ships and crews that survived. Trying to get them out of the system, there's something blocking long-range communications, I think they got to the relay hubs. We need to warn everyone away from Earth."

"Put all security teams on full boarding alert," Koltopek ordered. "Place tactical groups in all essential areas, and get all non-essential crew into shelter zones. I want all Jeffery's Tubes sealed, as well as non-vital turboshafts." As Sutton moved to carry out the orders, Koltopek turned back to the Bucharest's beleaguered commander. "I am ordering my vessel out of the system. I suggest that you and your escort follow us out. There is nothing more we can do here right now."

Tereni shook his head. "No, we lost Warp drive fighting off some of the ships that got taken over. No time to fix it, we've got to keep fighting here. I'll send the _Steadfast_ with you, she's still…"

Somewhere off-screen, an officer shouted. "Sir, the _Steadfast_ has picked up heavy pursuit!"

Tereni gritted his teeth. "They're branching out more. We can't hold out against much more. Captain, get out of here. Warn as many as you can away, the other survivors are rendezvousing at… Sigma 35…"

The image burst again into static as the _Bucharest_ began to vector away from the other ship, its battered nose pointed towards the Cheyenne that had been on its wing. It had managed to destroy the pair of marauders, but its success had attracted more feral attackers, half a dozen ships of various classes and in various states of disrepair were bearing down upon it from just over the lunar horizon. Just as the first torpedoes began to split the icy blackness, Koltopek turned from the screen, his face still impassive, if tinged with a deep weariness.

"His orders are sound. We must stop any more vessels from coming here. Earth is lost."

Laura paused and blew out a long sigh. Despite generally being comfortable talking with people, even complete strangers, recounting the events of nearly a decade, especially the most recent ones, was quite taxing. She was beginning to wish she had taken Jacen's advice and postponed the meeting, but her audience was hanging on her every word; it would be wrong to deprive them of the rest of the dark tale. Nevertheless, the brief respite seemed to be needed; she didn't need to be a telepath to know that Picard and Troi were having some difficulty taking in what she had just related. One could hardly blame them, Laura wouldn't have believed it herself if she hadn't seen the Federation capital collapse into chaos in person.

When it became clear neither officer was willing or perhaps even able to venture a question, Laura took a breath and pushed onward. "After we regrouped with the few ships that managed to escape the system, it didn't take long to figure out that what happened around Earth was not an isolated incident. Vulcan, Betazed, Tellar, Andoria, all of them were overtaken in the same way, simultaneously and without warning. And it wasn't just the Federation either; the Klingons lost Qo'nos and Ty'gokor, the Cardassians…"

She stopped again, kneading her soft tunic with balled fists almost involuntarily as she looked away from her listeners. Jacen moved closer to where she sat and knelt down next to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. He gave a comforting nod, which she slowly returned with a weak smile, and then turned back to the audience. "The three months since then have been utter confusion. Starfleet lost most of its best admirals on that day, and the whole Federation Council. Chancellor Gowron was killed defending his capitol, I've heard. Admiral Nechayev tried to gather what forces she could and retake Earth from whatever it was that had seized it, but they were crushed; something had tipped them off to the attack, and they were ready in force, drawing in rebellious ships from all over the quadrant. The Admiral's ship barely survived the retreat, but it did get some orbital pictures of the planet, I've seen them; everyone has."

"There was this slick, some kind of purple filth that was growing over huge parts of the globe, all over the place. It looked alive, covering and devouring whole cities, and people. Some of the ships that escaped takeover by those creatures did autopsies on the invaders. Some were completely alien, unlike we'd ever encountered. Others… well, one of my friends was part of the first medical team to look at them. He told me some were Humans, or Vulcans, or other species, twisted and corrupted, turned into animals filled with explosive liquid and venom. Living bombs."

"These things didn't stop with those first planets, though. They kept on jumping from one world to the next, using their stolen ships to destroy what forces we cold muster in their defense, and then planting seeds, like huge gobs of flesh, on the planets, which started growing the living slick. Even when a task force managed to take back a planet, it surface was already being devoured by the stuff; most of the colonists were dead, and there were creatures there even more twisted than the ones they used on us in space. The admiral in charge burned the place from orbit; I can't really blame him."

"What fleets the Federation has left were gathered at Deep Space Nine, the last I heard, along with some remnants of the Klingon and Cardassian fleets. No one knows what happened to the Romulans, they're hasn't been any contact beyond the Neutral Zone since the first attack, and no one's had the resources to launch a mission into their space."

"The _Cornwall_ was part of the Second Fleet, dispatched to evacuate the Sigma Aberon colony before it could be taken, but we were ambushed en-route. Those creatures attacked us with our own ships again, but this time there were other things too, like missiles with wings. Thousands of them, coming at our shields and overwhelming them with sheer numbers. Captain Koltopek and Commander Sutton were killed when the bridge breached. Travers took control from the secondary command center and got us into warp, but they followed, and managed to board the ship. They killed most of the crew before we contained them, but they still managed to disable the engines. By the time we lost power, I was one of the few survivors. Someone pushed me into that junction room, where I was when your officers rescued me."

When Laura at last finished her account, the small room remained silent for a long while. In the time Jacen Solo had known Captain Picard, he had only know him to loose composure once, when he had seen Beverly Crusher's broken body in that shuttle's hold, and now he seemed close to collapse again, simply staring over Laura's shoulder at nothing. Deanna Troi was also speechless, caught between disbelief and unmitigated horror, without even the slightest hope that might have been found in the possibility that the story was false; even her limited telepathic senses could clearly discern every word the ensign had spoken was true.

It was Tassadar, who had listened to the account in a motionless, almost meditative state throughout, who finally broke the silence, his powerful "voice" unusually dark. "The creatures that did this to your worlds are known as the Zerg. They are well known to me and my kin, and it is my sworn duty to protect civilization, Protoss and otherwise, from their pestilence. I shall not detail again their abominable nature, Picard can relate it to you if he wishes, but I would ask of you one question; have you heard of or seen any binding force behind their growth? A master who guides their destruction and assimilation of your worlds?"

Laura thought for a moment. "Officially, command doesn't seem to know who or what is behind the expansion of these things, these Zerg. There is a greater intellect there, but all of the creatures we've captured are mindless, like predatory animals."

Tassadar peered at her with his huge, unblinking eyes, never breaking contact with her own. It was as though he was sifting through her thoughts, and she suspected very much that that was precisely what he was doing. Not wanting the alien to probe deeper, she continued, more hurriedly now.

"Still, there are rumors floating around in the fleet. Some say that a few of the survivors who managed to escape Earth in a shuttlecraft before it fell saw someone standing amidst that spreading purple slick, untouched by the creatures that seemed to sprout out of it. They say it had the shape of a Human woman, but was mutated, covered in huge spines and scales. Some have even said she spoke in words that the Universal Translator the evacuees had with them could understand, issuing commands to the horrors that swept the land. She called herself, they say, 'Queen of Blades'."

The title meant nothing to the others, but Tassadar's eyes flexed widely and shown with an indescribable color when he heard it. Rising slowly from his meditative posture, the templar intoned one word and one word only, seemingly oblivious to the stares of the others.

"Kerrigan."


	29. Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Seven

Reginald Barclay looked nervously at the large device cradled in his dirty, outstretched palms, a slight twitch of his lower lip accentuating the exhausted bewilderment in his eyes. It looked like a pair of elongated, blue shells, connected together by an enormous handgrip, and tapered on the sides and back with short fins, some of them obscuring a bright greenish glow that emanated from the interior of the object. Between the forward tips of each shell, a pair of teeth sprouted, angled at one another and bearing stripes of the same eerie glow.

"Um… what is it, exactly?"

By virtue of the charred wound on his head, now bandaged hastily with some sort of dark-colored cloth, and his generally alien features, the Arbiter's reaction was not readily readable, but the way in which his massive shoulders slumped slightly suggested mounting exasperation.

Lower mandibles tightening upward, the Sangheili warrior placed a massive hand on the device, rotated it, and then placed the human's outstretched right hand on its central handle column. He then let go, causing Barclay to sway forward unsteadily as he corrected for its significant weight, quickly supporting the object with his left. The Arbiter then indicated to a wide panel on the handle's interior side with a long finger.

"This is a plasma rifle, favored sidearm of the Covenant foot soldier. It is designed for usage by those of my kind, but I believe it will serve you adequately. Operation is simple; target an opponent between the nodules at the rifle's front, and depress this trigger. If you depress it too long, it will overheat, and become unusable for several seconds." His yellowish eyes passed over the human's exposed, fleshy hands. "I do not recommend firing more than a few bursts at a time in your case."

Barclay, attention torn between the alien's deadly-serious face, and the weapon in his hands, nodded slowly.

From the small cockpit of the small salvager they were standing in, the Arbiter, who had to hunch down in the enclosed space, pointed into the hold beyond, where five more figures lay, all seemingly unconscious. One, the Imperial infiltrator supposedly named Flitch, remained propped against an adjacent bulkhead, badly beaten, but still breathing. Nearby, a trio of creatures, two stocky, reptilian beings in bulky atmospheric gear, and a sickly-thin, bird-like alien were similarly laid up, piled unceremoniously in a small alcove. The Arbiter had identified them as Unngoy and Kig-Yar respectively.

The final member of the ship's captured complement was a being of the Arbiter's own species, nearly as tall and muscular, and dressed in angular, crimson and black plating, unlike the other's elegantly-forged silver encrusting. Lying at the center of the small assembly hall, its thick wrists and ankles were bound by shackles that were silted with the same glow that emerged from Barclay's weapon.

"Keep watch on them, and alert me if any of them awake."

With that, the warrior stooped back deeper into small cockpit, leaving Barclay alone in the badly-lit chamber, nervously trying to figure out how to hold the bulky weapon without accidentally discharging it. After a long few minutes in which neither of them spoke, only the shallow breathing of the captives and the low hum emitted from the machinery buried in the deck below providing life to the eerie stillness of the craft, the Starfleet officer, began to slowly back into the smaller room, feelings of unease and bewilderment mounting.

Seated on the large, oddly back-sloping pilot's chair, the Arbiter was monitoring the various gauges and panels mounted before his with focused interest. Despite the fact that he had served on starships for more than a decade, Barclay couldn't decipher what was being shown; the raised, glowing holographic displays and chains of sprawling, irregular text were well beyond his experience. He did, however, recognize the flat disk that currently held the Arbiter's attention, a 2D representation of local space, showing the wreckage left by the rapid arrival and retreat of Imperial forces, and beyond it…

"How many more ships are out there?" Barclay asked, lowering his weapon slowly and leaning in for a closer look.

Without looking up, the alien touched a segment of the immaterial field, and it ballooned upward, now showing the area in form. There were at least two dozen small, bluish blips in the immediate vicinity of the map's center, where Barclay assumed they were, passing through clouds of tiny black marks. Well beyond the sphere that held most of the debris, three more blips floated in the void, these ones far larger, bearing long, contoured shapes. Further still, at the very edge of the hologram's reach, a blur of blue clotted the void, far larger than any of the other icons.

"I cannot be sure; this vessel's long-range scanning equipment is limited. There are twenty-four other salvage craft in this debris field, along with at least half a dozen Seraph fightercraft. The three warships beyond this cluster are likely their base platforms." He paused, adeptly tapping controls beneath his large hands to magnify the blur on the edge of his display. The forms were still indistinct, and lined with static, but it was clear there were a great many of them, most apparently larger than the symbols that represented the salvage carriers. "That is what remains of the Covenant battle fleet that was instructed to destroy and occupy this system. Their battle with the Imperial Star Destroyer was highly costly, but there are probably still several hundreds capital ships still deployed here."

Barclay looked at the tall, focused alien in surprise. "You know why these ships are here?" He had gathered that they were in the Arbiter's own galaxy now, but he hadn't known that he could actually identify the place and time. Of course, if the warrior had mentioned it, the engineer might not have heard; he wasn't quite feeling himself yet, for obvious reasons. Flitch's kidnapping, the battle on the transport, his rough and hurried subsequent extraction from the vessel, it was all largely a blur. All he had been able to definitively gather from the Arbiter was that they were now stranded in a potentially hostile world, most likely without hope of reinforcement. Barclay had experienced such perilous adventures before, many times in fact, but such experience had little bearing now; as he had learned many times before, holodeck excursion generally tended to pale in the face of hard reality.

The Arbiter did not reply for a long moment, instead turning his attention to the small wall panels that showed the space beyond the craft's hull, drifts of distant stars blocked by the shadowed hulls of charred debris and the occasional pinprick of a passing searcher. When he at last spoke again, his voice was not as strong and assured as it usually; if Barclay didn't know any better, he would have said it rang with regret.

"In this galaxy, I and my forebears have long been part of a great alliance of many species, the Holy Covenant. Guided by the Prophets (he emphasized the word with clear emotion of a type which the human could not identify), we spread across the stars, dominating others and absorbing them into out whole, until nearly every world belonged to us. It was our goal, preached by the Prophets, to unite all of the children of the Gods, our Forerunners, and then locate the sacred relics with which we could rejoin them in paradise."

"But that changed when we discovered your people, the humans. The Prophets ordered their complete extermination, not adoption into our compact as we had always done before, for reasons known only to them. I was their loyal servant, and I complied; our fleets swept over the worlds of humankind like a plague, killing all we saw, hunting them until only a few remained. When our probes located this system, from which the last human warriors organized their resistance, I was one of many shipmasters dispatched to deal them a fatal blow, a strike that would expose their heart, leave their homeworld bear. And we did our job, all too well; that fleet out there is clustered around the human's fortress, no doubt wiping away the last traces of life there."

Again silence hung in the small chamber, the Arbiter having returned his attention the displays, leaving the human behind him to grapple with the information. He had known little of the Arbiter's kind and past before now, only a few quips that Geordi La'forge had relayed about how the stoic Master Chief had initially mistrusted him, but beyond that, he was simply another alien warrior, stranded as they all were on a strange and aimless voyage. He had fought alongside them all against the Imperials, Barclay had even saved the warrior's life, he recalled dimly; now he was supposed to believe that this creature was a mortal enemy of humanity, and had probably killed many with his own hands. Images of the skill with which Arbiter had dispatched the Stormtroopers on the _Home One_ crawled slowly back into his mind…

"The captives?"

The Arbiter's voice roused Barclay from his morbid reverie, causing him to raise his weapon fractionally towards the alien before he was able to stop himself. No, whatever this being had done before, he was an ally now, the only one he had right now. Besides, Barclay was an engineer, and not a particularly brave or even self-secure one at that; he would be no match for the muscular, trained soldier if he ever started to revert to his old ways. There was no choice but to trust.

Gulping to ride himself of apprehension, unsuccessfully, Barclay glanced back into the silent hold. "Um… they're all still asleep… knocked out. No one's moving. It's all right."

The Arbiter inclined his long, bare skull marginally in recognition, and turned his attention fully back to monitoring the distant ships.

Now even more unsettled by the quiet, Barclay spoke up again. "So, what do we do now?"

That was a question that the Sangheili had been wrestling since he had witnessed the Covenant armada do battle with the marauding Star Destroyer, a conflict whose ample detritus had fortunately given him some respite to choose his own path, deflecting immediate detection by the multitude of warships in the system. Now that an operable medium of transport, be it a short-range one, was at his disposal, the soldier had to begin planning out the future, and what repercussions his actions might have. Though somewhat overwhelmed by sudden realization he was once again in a world he knew, the Arbiter had been able recognize the flagship _Ascendant Justice_ before it had been destroyed, and realize what the event meant. In his past, the chain of events that had lead to contact with the human's _Enterprise_, that warship had not fallen in this system; it had pursued the _Pillar of Autumn_ to the holy relic, to the Halo installation, and to his own disgrace.

But now, all of that had changed. The ship's commander, Teno 'Falanamee, the being he had once been, was dead, long before he could be cast down and raised up anew, the process that had birthed the Arbiter himself. And yet, in spite of the death, he still remained, and now stood in a position unlike any even the Gods had held. He was in a position to change anything, and everything.

There was still a voice, the little base urge that had tormented him while on the Mon Calamari vessel, that now sang with joy; this was an opportunity to fall back within the ranks of the Covenant. He would be saved of the disgrace that the failure around Halo had given him, it would be simple to reemerge, say that he had escaped the destruction of his flagship. The loss would still be a troublesome, but it would not compare to what he had faced on the other path, he could redeem himself in the eyes of the High Council. He would have respect again, a warship at his control, master of his own honor and destiny, and not the disposable enforcer the mantle of the Arbiter had made him, a puppet of authority.

But, that voice held little sway with him now; he had conquered it long ago. There was too much to forgive, too much to forget. The warrior could not disregard the honor, the goodness, the right to live, he had seen in the humans these past weeks. More importantly, he could not forget that great betrayal, the one that had forever changed his world.

Memory of that dark hour rushed back to him: that cold, misty chamber, bodies of slain soldiers and war machines littering its ancient floor. In his role as fist of the Prophets, he had been dispatched to a newly found relic of their Gods, another Halo, to prevent a human strike force, among them the man that had caused him such disgrace, from destroying the structure, and to retrieve an artifact that would allow for the ring to be activated, heralding the prophesized reunion with the Forerunners. He had not questioned the quest, it was his duty, his lone purpose in life now, and as such he had fought through the ancient fortress where the artifact was housed with reckless abandon, slaughtering robotic defenders, and darker creatures as well, roused by the melee.

With the help of numerous loyal Sangheili warriors, he had at last made it to the heart of the protected vault, only to find the humans had reached the prize first. He dispatched them with relative ease, and seeing no need to slay his defeated foes, picked the artifact from their prone bodies, his mission a success.

But it did not end there. The accursed beast Tartarus, favored minion of the Prophet Hierarchs, had arrived, relieving him of the relic, and unleashing his Jiralhanae brutes to gather up the unconscious humans. And then, leaving the Arbiter no time to even smart from the robbing of both prizes of his conquest, Tartarus had revealed his true intent; he planned to eliminate the Sangheili from their long-cherished post as the executors of the Covenant, and install his own race in their place. Then, in the moment before the giant cast him into a pit at the center of the chamber, he revealed that this treachery, the downfall and subjugation of the ancient warrior race, would be executed with the High Prophet's sanction.

The betrayal was absolute; the Sangheili were a founding member of the Covenant, they had led its armies to victory after victory for millennia uncounted, and yet the Prophet Hierarchs would cravenly replace their ancient role with the legions of the Jiralhanae, savage, dishonorable trolls who feasted upon the flesh of the fallen, even that of their own allies.

No, the Arbiter would never serve the Prophets again. He had vowed that even as he lay nearly broken at the bottom of that great pit, his life spared only by the intervention of an abomination that dwelt at the core of the Halo, a beast from a time when the Forerunners themselves roamed the galaxy. In that dark place, he had learned more of the great treachery; the great ring, supposed bringer of salvation for all believers, was really a weapon of terrible power, and its activation would wipe away all life in the galaxy. Even the basic tenants of the Covenant faith were a lie, and the Prophets knew it. What they could gain by such an act of complete extermination he did not know, but he knew that their machinations had to be stopped.

And now, he had an unexpected and unparalleled opportunity to save his kind, and those who might still be loyal to them, from the Prophets and their minions. Yes, that had to be his goal now. It was all that mattered.

Still, there were other matters to be considered. He alone might be able to rejoin the armada, claim that he had escaped the annihilation of his flagship, and meld back into the war machine, in a position to undermine the Prophets from within, but he was burdened with an additional charge, Barclay. Certainly, the creature was of no great significance, and an earlier him might have simply slain or abandoned the human, but that was a path he no longer followed, nor wished to rejoin. No, Barclay had proved himself to be brave enough when needed, if annoyingly talkative and nervous most of the time, and the Arbiter did, after all, owe him his life. No matter how it might waylay his new purpose, the human could not be sacrificed out of hand.

Then there was Flitch. A spy and traitor, the warrior felt little attachment to the man, and would not be so averse to casting off the burden he represented. Nevertheless, the crumpled form was a reminder of a far greater threat; if he was right, that damnable wormhole at the center of the debris field remained open. If the human Empire chose to return in force, they would be a threat greater even than the Prophets…

Barclay shifted on his feet nervously, unsure what the alien's long silence meant. He had finally worked up the courage to try and ask his question again when the Arbiter leaned forward and looked over at the human.

"Ships like this one are not equipped for long-range travel. Our first move must be to dock with one of those carrier ships. The other salvagers should be breaking off soon, and I can use this vessel's logs to determine which squadron it is tasked with." With a few key strokes, many of the displays disappeared or recessed into the hull, and a dual control stick rose between the Sangheili's legs. Taking hold of it, the Arbiter eased the ship into motion, its docking claps disengaging from the derelict Alliance shuttle outside almost silently. Slowly at first, then far more rapidly, the ship accelerated into space, skirting around huge chunks of wreckage, the pilot's skill in the role rapidly becoming apparent.

As he watched the ravaged chunks of metal race by, a new concern occurred to the human. "Won't they… the people on the command ship be somewhat annoyed that we commandeered one of their ships and knocked out its crew?"

"Standing armada policy on hostile boarders and thieves is to shoot on sight."

Barclay clutched his rifle tighter. "Oh."

"Sir, deep-range sensors are picking up an anomaly in relative sector four point three."

Putting aside a readout on the continuing repairs of the _Republica_ being overseen by her XO, who was at the moment in the ship's primary sublight drive control center, Captain Ryceed leaned forward in her control seat, focused on the Mon Calamari lieutenant who was offering the report.

"Are you sure it isn't simply another glitch? The deep-range systems haven't been fully recalibrated yet."

"No sir, Sensor Control has checked and rechecked it," the salmon-skinned officer replied. "There is definitely something out there, although we are still unable to identify it."

Ryceed nodded. "Very well. Sector four isn't in the vicinity of the wormhole; it must be natives." She turned to the bridge's tactical station. "Do we have deflector screens back?"

"At seventy two percent, Captain."

"Be ready to engage them, full coverage, on my mark. I want weapons control standing by as well, and a squadron of alert interceptors ready for launch."

Ryceed turned back to her ship's main viewscreen, which simply showed the placid, empty starfield beyond. The _Republica_ had been immobile, its internal resources completed dedicated to repairs, for several hours now, and even though they were moving along quickly considering the impressive amount of damage the emergency transit had inflicted, the cruiser was still hardly in fighting shape. On top of that, the captain and her crew still had no idea where the ship lay; the long-range sensors had only recently begun coming online, and without them attempting to match up local space with known stellar configurations was next to impossible, even for the android Data, who still sat at the makeshift wormhole station that had been rigged up near Communication Control. The white-skinned being was now watching her intently, roused from his continued study of the invisible vortex's nature. None of his comrades were on the bridge, likely still resting from the events of the previous day, but Ryceed secretly suspected Cortana was still watching her from the bridge security monitors above.

"May I be of assistance, Captain," Data asked evenly, fixing her in his cool, feline gaze.

Ryceed considered. "I think my bridge crew is quite capable of this, thank you. However, if you wish, you may observe their readings. I suppose it is possible you might be more familiar with them than my regular staff."

The android nodded, and then swiftly moved to the main sensor station, where the Mon Calamari Lieutenant and several others worked, attempting to clear the interference from their new readings. After another two minutes of tense silence, the static began to clear.

"Sir, we've locked on to it. The anomaly appears to be a starship of some kind, moving at approximately 2,500c, on a direct course with the _Republica_. It should be in weapons range in two minutes, twenty seconds."

The captain frowned. A ship moving only several thousand times past the speed of light? Even civilian vessels moved orders of magnitude faster.

"Is its hyperdrive damaged?"

Checking his screens again, the officer shook his head. "No, sir. The object appears to be enveloped in some sort of realspace disruption; if it was simply using a faulty hyper unit, we would be reading a massive tachyon contrail behind it."

Data, who seemed to be taking in the information displayed on the numerous terminals before him despite the fact they were in Basic, leaned in closer, over the shoulder of an attending ensign.

"May I?"

The woman backed away from her input panel, eyeing the machine curiously. The service and protocol droids that filled out the ship's ranks were rarely so bold.

With surprising ease, Data began to manipulate the screens, bringing up new readings and perspectives on the approaching anomaly, translating much of the text into the Federation common script, and even pulling up old sensor scans of the derelict vessel they had located near the wormhole's mouth. Before Ryceed could question him, though, the android turned back to her, the expression on his artificial face changed somehow, almost relieved.

"Captain, I believe that ship is encased in a Warp bubble."

Ryceed frowned; she had heard the term used once or twice by some of the Starfleet crewers, but it meant little to here. "And that means what?"

"Unless I am greatly in error, that ship was constructed in the Alpha Quadrant of my home galaxy, most likely by the Federation or the Klingon Empire, considering the harmonic frequency of its shell."

"Well, it would seem that we're finally where we are supposed to be," Ryceed said, with no small sense of relief. Nevertheless, she was not looking forward to a first contact situation; diplomacy was not one of her strongest suits. "I want Councilor Organa up here immediately, and Captain Picard as well. Tell them that we've picked up a…"

Suddenly, a vacant display screen on the woman's right lit up with a familiar bluish light. "No need, Captain," Cortana reported cheerfully. "I've already alerted them. The ambassadors should be on the bridge within a few minutes."

Ryceed glared at the AI's representation. "_Thank you_ very much, Cortana. However, as of this moment, my crew is still perfectly capable of executing such a task in the future. If an opening appears, you shall certainly be the first to know, but until then, I prefer it if you attempted to restrain yourself while tapping into my bridge surveillance system. You may be under Councilor Organa's protection, but that won't prevent me from initiating extra computer security counter-measures should I feel that the need has arisen. And I assure you, the programmers in my crew are more than up to the task."

Cortana frowned, although Ryceed couldn't tell if it was from honest consternation, or if she was being mocked. Considering their recent conversations, the later was the more likely prospect. "As you wish, Captain." With that, the image dissolved into a haze of blue static, and then nothingness.

Sighing deeply, Ryceed sank into her command chair and glared out into space. _I'll take on a battalion of Stormtroopers with just a sporting blaster and half a box of death sticks gladly, but if I have to play nanny droid to this AI for another solar day…_

"Why isn't that blasted ship here yet?" she snapped at the lieutenant, who disregard her tone automatically. Captain Ryceed was easy to rile up, but she generally didn't lash out in any significant or dangerous manner. Generally.

"It's just reverting to realspace now, sir. Two thousand clicks directly forward."

With a nod from Ryceed, numerous tactical displays focused in on the targeted starship, as did the electronic cells in the main viewport, magnifying the starship to visual size. Though inexperienced with Federation designs, Ryceed immediately recognized the vessel's unusual, sleek and polished white hull, a wide saucer mounted upon a low-slung, with a pair of long, exposed nacelles jutting behind, like those of a Y-wing starfighter.

"Data?"

"I believe it is a Galaxy-class starship, Captain. The one of the most advanced starship class in Starfleet," the android replied, watching the approaching vessel with keen interest.

"Not, I think, anymore, Mr. Data."

Ryceed and the machine turned to see Captain Picard mounting the low dais on which the command portion of the bridge sat, Commander Riker, Deanna Troi, Leia Organa, and C-3PO close behind. By the turbolift bank from which they had all entered, Major Truul took up a sentry position alongside the regular bridge marines, staring at the deck somberly.

"Captain?" Data asked, unsure what his superior was implying, but Picard held up a hand, a clear indication that he would fill the android in later. Data fell silent, positronic brain already switching gears.

The captain continued forward, staring at the distant ship with something akin to an awed grin on his face, stopping only when he reached Ryceed's seat.

"You recognize it, Picard?"

"It can't be sure," he replied, still seemingly overcome by emotion. "But…" the markings on the forward disc of the craft at last became clear, unintelligible to Ryceed "ah, yes. The _Magellan_. I knew it."

"That's Gehirn's ship, isn't it?" Riker offered from behind them, his voice equally overcome by awed relief.

"There's only one way to find out, number one." Picard turned back to Ryceed. "Can you open up a communications frequency. Try…" he broke off, recalling his earlier realization of the technological sophistication of Alliance hardware compared to his own. "Try a frequency lower than the one you likely usually use."

The _Republica's_ captain, along with Leia Organa, raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, but she nodded to the comms command officer, and he immediately began bombarding the opposing ship with hyperwave and subspace frequencies, attempting to find one that both ships could harness. As soon as he began doing so, the _Magellan_ stopped cold, barely within the cruiser's effective weapons range.

"What is it doing?" Ryceed asked Picard cautiously.

Picard frowned. "Are you scanning it?"

She nodded. "We have been for the last few minutes. The ship didn't respond before now."

"Well, I suggest you stop. If what I've heard is correct, that ship's captain might not take well to any perceived threats, your probes included."

Increasingly wary, but still compliant, Ryceed wordless confirmed the order. A moment later, the comm controller's receiver panel began to crackle. "I think I've got something, sir," he called out. "I'm trying to lock to down the right signal. It looks like they've opened up both an audio and visual line."

"Link them both to my personal receiver," Ryceed ordered, sitting back in her command alcove and directing her view towards a 2D display fixed near the bridge's low ceiling. The others followed her gaze.

After a moment, the screen winked on, revealing a colorless haze amidst which a human form was vaguely visible. Gradually, the blob focused and cleared slightly, at last revealing a middle-aged human woman standing in the middle of an expansive, scallop-shaped chamber. Reflective phantoms continued to race across the image, and the whole thing had an unnaturally bluish tinge, but it was stable enough to show the woman in detail. She was tall, with short, blonde hair, and a worn face. The uniform she wore was similar in color and design to ones in which Riker and Picard were still draped, but it was darker, more formal, more military.

Satisfied that the image was as clears as it was going to get, Ryceed began to speak. "This is Captain Ryceed, commanding the cruiser _Republica_, of the Alliance to restore the Republic. My ship is carrying ambassadors from our Supreme Council; they wish to make contact your command structure."

In response, the other woman frowned, and cast a glance to someone out of the image's clear view, saying something soft and unintelligible. After apparently receiving some reply, she looked up again. "I am Captain Lena Gehirn of the United Federation of Planets starship USS _Magellan_. Our universal translator is having difficulty identifying the language you are speaking. If you can understand what I am saying, please attempt to adjust your own."

Ryceed stared at the other captain for a moment, and then turned to Picard and the others. "I assume you can understand what she is saying?"

"Of course, Captain," C-3PO piped up from the middle of the group, nudging his way forward with obvious eagerness. "I have familiarized with the language that the humans of this galaxy use, and I would be more than happy to serve as a liaison for you. I am quite experienced in the capacity."

Before the golden protocol droid could move far, however, Leia laid a hand on his shoulder, causing him to halt, bewildered. "No, C-3PO. I think Jean-Luc should do it."

Expressionless as his mask of a face was, the droid began to exude an aura of disappointment, but stepped back nonetheless. "As you wish, Mistress Organa."

Stopping only to offer an appreciative nod to Leia, Picard moved alongside Ryceed's seat, within full view of the screen above. "I'm afraid the captain doesn't have a ship to ship universal translator at her disposal. However, my personal one still appears to be in good repair; I'll be happy to serve as an intermediary."

Gehirn's blue eyes were first attracted to Picard's warn uniform, but before she had time to inquire about it, the remaining static cleared momentarily, and she got a good look at his face. A second later, the woman's jaw dropped.

"Picard?" she managed, still gaping in disbelief. "Captain Jean-Luc Picard? But… how? You… the _Enterprise_, disappeared years ago, a decade. We all thought you were dead."

The bald man grinned. "Yes, I've heard my absence has been unexpectedly… extended, but I assure you, I am still very much alive."

Gehirn let out a short, although not joyless laugh. "Well, this is certainly not what I expected when we detected anomalous energy readings in this sector. I had thought it might be another…" she tapered off, her smile fading considerably. Behind Picard, Deanna fidgeted, her expression similarly changing from one of relief to sadness.

"Well, lets not get ahead of ourselves," she continued at last. "I see you still haven't lost that dramatic flair you so fond of showing off at the academy. That's quite a ship you've got there; Lieutenant Morgan is having a hard time even scanning past its superstructure. So, what happened to the _Enterprise_? It's not like you to travel on any other ship but your own."

Now Picard's grin began to fade. "The _Enterprise_… was lost a long time ago."

"Lost? And her crew?"

Picard sighed, demons of memory he had been trying to restrain for weeks suddenly clawing at his heart. "Only Commander Riker, myself, and eight… seven other members of the _Enterprise's_ crew are onboard the _Republica_."

"What of the rest?" Gehirn pressed, her concern increasing. "were they all…"

Picard shook his head. "I will be perfectly happy to explain what has happened to us, as well as other, more current matters, but I do not think this is the appropriate venue."

"Thank you, Captain," Ryceed said simply, clearly uncomfortable being forced to sit in on the reunion.

Gehirn eyed the other woman again, and then gave a Picard a quick nod. "Of course. If you wish, I can have my ready room prepped for you and… whoever else cares to come onboard immediately. Before that, though, I do have to ask, where exactly..."

The question remained unanswered, however, as the Federation starship's bridge was suddenly doused with red light, and a klaxon began blaring in the background. Startled, Gehirn was distracted again as another woman, presumably her first officer, came into view and whispered something hurriedly into her ear.

"How far are we at maximum warp?" she responded immediately, her demeanor instantly stern and focused.

"Four hours, sir," the second woman responded. "We might be too late."

Exchanging worried glances with his own first, Picard attempted to regain Gehirn's attention. "Captain, what's going on?"

The woman looked even more worn now, all traces of good humor vanished. All that remained was the face of a human slowly being crushed by hopelessness. "We've just received a distress beacon from the Bajor system. Deep Space Nine and the fleet are being overrun."


	30. Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty Eight

Though relatively modest in size, none of them more than a kilometer in length, the half dozen warships were nonetheless an impressive spectacle, gliding swiftly through space in a tight, diamond formation. At the center of this group moved the greatest of the vessels, a massive, pointed shell, reminiscent in its form of a bottom-dwelling sea predator, withdrawn into its carapace in anticipation of approaching prey. Across its surface were scattered dozens of emplacements of various size and function; ion cannons, laser turrets, tractor beam projectors.

The five ships that hung in space nearby were similarly shaped and adorned, near replicas of their host, albeit in miniature. And further out still swarmed a mass of tiny craft, flitting under and around the bows and curved hulls of their charges, forming up, break off, and rejoining one another with near-impossible coordination. Each was a tiny pyramid, each tip bearing a formidable turret fully capable of tearing apart any starship of similar size that was caught unawares by them.

This was the arm of the Ssi-Ruuvi Imperium, one of many fleets that enforced the homeworld's edicts and ambitions. Out beyond the farthest reaches of the Galactic Empire, deep in the legendary and virtually impassable vastness known as Wild Space at the fringe of the cosmic disk, the Imperium held absolute sway over dozens of systems. Born of the fierce reptilian Ssi-Ruu and their submissive P'w'eck slaves, this conglomeration had for eons held absolute dominion over their star cluster, subjugating all those who resided there. To drive the war machines that made this conquest possible, the lizards had long developed a terrible and arcane technology; Entechment, a process through which the life energies of slaves and captives could be drained from the corporeal forms and be bottled up, a power source of great potential with which flowed through the cores of every one of their warships.

But the process left its victims lifeless husks, and eventually the Elders of the homeworld knew that a new source of slaves was required to maintain their fleets. Almost as a gift from the Gods, a being from beyond the worlds they knew, the ruler of a vast empire that encompassed stars beyond number, came forth with a proposition; in exchange for a sample of their entechment technology, he would allow the fleets of the Imperium to come to some of the fringe worlds of this mighty empire and harvest them, a crop of billions of vital, sapient lives. The Elders eagerly agreed, but before the bargain could be finalized, this mighty leader was destroyed, and negotiations ceased.

However, the Imperium had already staked its fortunes upon this new hunting ground, and would not be dissuaded. Surely, if the leader of such a great nation were to fall, it would collapse around him; who would notice the absence of the inhabitants of a few unimportant worlds in the ensuing chaos? And so the new conquest had begun, the essence batteries that drove the Ssi-Ruu horde filling once more, energized with alien lives, human lives.

The invasion had not gone according to plan.

Though seemingly motionless in the supreme vastness of interplanetary space, the Ssi-Ruuvi warships were accelerating as fast as their drives were able, dozens of small aft tubes burning with a fiery light. Similarly mobile, the mass of fighters that swarmed over their hosts now moved not in simple flight patterns or practice maneuvers; they waited to defend against a threat, one that might very well overwhelm them.

The source of this peril soon became evident. From both above and below the travel plane of the speeding vessels erupted a hail of emerald lances, each pulsing with a raging power that could smote mountain peaks. The larger of the vessels met the sudden barrage with an invisible barrier that sprang to life across their hulls, catching and dissipating the focused jets of ruination before they could unleash their full power, but the fields of the smaller ships could not cope with the onslaught. One, and then another were bisected once, and then again by the harrying beams, whose passage triggered a fireball within each of the afflicted ship's hearts. In concert, the pair erupted with atomic fire, annihilated themselves, and then cast their remaining, charred components to the stellar winds, causing the escorting fightercraft to scramble into evasive maneuvers.

Then came a new wave of destruction, this time in the form of a hundred black and gray vessels not much larger than the multitude of pyramids they plunged into headlong. Flat-winged TIE fighters and their fast, angled Interceptor kin shredded the outmaneuvered defenders like parchment, choking the sky with glistening laces of energy. Certainly, the pyramid fighters were more heavily armed, and sported shielding and armor that the attackers did not, but the droid brain that drove each could not adapt to the changing combat situation quickly enough, and by the time the survivors had regrouped, nearly a third of their number was nothing more than scattered detritus. Nevertheless, they spiraled back into a fierce counterattack, the anti-fighter guns of the larger ships adding to their potency, but it was already too late; the TIE squadrons had pulled back, and in their place forged the true hunters of the pack.

The four Imperial Star Destroyers shrugged off the incoming fire as if it was merely a display of colorful sparks, and unleashed another terrible volley, like the one that had immolated the two escorting vessels moments before.

The battle was short and unremarkable. Ssi-Ruuvi warships were designed to capture their prey for entechment, not destroy it, and when faced with a truly worthy foe, they could do nothing but flee and hope that their swarms of droid fighters could slow their pursuers. In this instance, their gambit had failed.

Standing on the bridge of the Star Destroyer _Fi_ with his arms crossed loosely at his back, Grand Admiral Peccati Syn looked out into space absently as the embers of the alien command ship faded into the blackness, the last of its escorts pitted in hopeless sorties against wing after wing of victorious TIEs. A tactically-minded and skilled man, Syn was typically fascinated by the carnage that his ships unleashed upon the foes of the Empire, but this time victory was simply too easy; besides, there were other, more pressing matters on his mind.

When the last of his squadron's fightercraft had withdrawn from the battlefield, the Grand Admiral sighed and turned slowly to a subordinate, who waited at stiff attention.

"Grand Admiral, the last of the alien invaders have been cleared from Cattamascar and the surrounding systems," the officer reported. "The battle group your squadron just defeated was the last of the major resistance. Vice Admiral Corcaka believes that there may be scattered pockets of resistance on the planet, and has dispatched several divisions to rout them and secure the surviving population centers."

Receiving no noticeable recognition from his superior, the man continued. "Initial reports from joint elements of the 12th fleet indicate losses were minimal; several squadrons of attack fighters, a few support craft, and the Lancer frigate _Mandor 67_, which was garrisoned around Cattamascar when it was taken. Civilian casualties are more severe; the invasion force that attempted to take Bakura was intercepted before it could begin targeting population centers, but the aliens did have access to the occupied planetary system, and several colonies on a nearby moon, for several days. Early reports indicate at least two million civilians were executed or herded into slave ships of some sort. Vice Admiral Corcaka has been attempting to ascertain the destination and objective of these vessels, but…"

At last, Syn waved a dismissive hand, and the officer fell silent. "Enough. These figures are of no concern to me. When the home base of these invaders has been located, you may alert me. Until then, I shall be in my chambers." He paused for emphasis, and glared into the officer's eyes intensely. "Let nothing else disturb me."

The subordinate delievered a smart salute, trying to keep his unease at the Grand Admiral's order from becoming evident. Such orders were to be taken quite seriously in the Imperial Starfleet, especially from a Grand Admiral. They had authority at their disposal for punishing failure that well surpassed that of a mere captain or commander. "As you command, Grand Admiral."

Beneath his stark-white uniform, bold rank plate, and twin golden epaulets, all marks of his high station, Peccati Syn was an ugly, corpulent man with a thin cap of blonde-white hair and a perpetually foul expression, but he nevertheless command respect from all who passed by on his short journey to the quarters he called home, buried deep with the durasteel titan that had long been the instrument of his will. Through moderate skill, the right connection, and a devotion to Emperor Palpatine's New Order that was beyond fanatical, Syn had begged and bullied his way through the ranks, finally currying his supreme master's favor, and becoming one of the first Grand Admirals, an elite core which acted as the penultimate authority over the unstoppable Imperial war machine.

There was another element of his regalia as well, not of his station, but even more telling of his psyche; a golden talisman that hung on a chain below his waggling chin, an artifact of a long repressed and largely extinct religion. It spoke of the man's dedication and devotion, his unerring belief in whatever cause he chose to cling to, a trait that Palpatine had found most useful in his servants. And since the Galactic Republic's fall, the object of Syn's fidelity, his very reason for existing, had been that one man and his mission of 'safe and secure society' for the galaxy at large.

And then, even as he grew ever more powerful, the Emperor had fallen, slain by the insidious rebel threat, or so the media said.

In that instant, less than a standard month ago, Syn's life had changed. He had never even considered in his darkest meditations that Palpatine, victor of the Clone Wars, savior of the galaxy, eliminator of the weak and corrupt, could die. It had shaken his core, and left him casting about for something new to believe in. This quest had consumed him for days and days on end, and the unease in the Imperial Center barely registered in his consciousness.

Darth Vader assuming the mantle of supreme ruler, the terrorist attack that left much of the old Emperor's inner circle dead. And then further upset; the Dark Lord of the Sith had set off on some great new crusade, taking with him many of the Empire's brightest commanders and a large chunk of the reserve starfleet. Who was in direct command of the Empire in his absence was unclear; some said COMPNOR, others the Central Committee of Grand Moffs, or even the cold-hearted Director of Imperial Intelligence Ysanne Isard. There had even been whispers that a new Imperial Senate was to be created. However, as of yet, the Empire had not devolved into disarray; Vader was still out there, ready to crush any rebellion now that the infamous Rebel Alliance had been all but obliterated, and there was much talk in hidden circles that he had had more than a passive role in the late Emperor's fall.

But all these thing had seemed mere obstructions to Syn's search, and when word had reached the core worlds that a hitherto unknown alien force was attacking border worlds along the Unknown Regions, the Grand Admiral had taken a large element of his command and struck off for the region without receiving orders from anyone; a new campaign might clear his head, or at the very least, remove him from the distractions of galactic politics. Alas, the menace had proved far too easily quashed, giving him barely any time for contemplation. Hopefully the alien's homeworld would take some time to locate.

Syn's chambers were spacious, but surprisingly barren, a testament to his own pious devotion. A few pieces of furniture, a handful of computer interface, each carved from cold, ebony metal. And of course there were the tapestries, ancient works, depicting battles and rituals on worlds laid to waste in millennia past and mighty warlords almost completely forgotten with the passage of eons. And of course, there was the towering statue of the Palpatine, the true Dark Lord of the Sith, that dominated the center of the chamber, three meters high and carved with immaculate detail, capturing all of the being's vast power and terrible presence. Syn was one of the few that knew of Palpatine's true nature, his power in the Force, but rather than disregard or revile it as most in the Empire now did, he had embraced it. Though he could not touch the mystical energy field, it consumed his passions; the Dark Side was all, and Palpatine was the Dark Side. Or so he had thought.

Pausing a moment to marvel at the towering form with a mixture of sorrow, confusion, and regret, Syn maneuvered himself around its base and towards his sleeping chambers, fingering the emblem around his neck as he ponder whether or not a brief nap could ease his mind. However, before he had traveled another dozen pace, Syn stopped short. There had been another shape behind the larger statue, one that he had never had placed there.

Whirling around and almost tipping over in the process, the Grand Admiral fumbled desperately for the holdout blaster tucked neatly near his waist. "Who are you?"

Shadowed by the massive edifice of wrought stone and metal, a figure did indeed stand, tall and motionless, its head and limbs enveloped in a long, black cloak. Even as Syn attempted to jerk his weapon from its holster, it revealed a single, gloved hand and raised it in calm supplication. "Calm yourself, Grand Admiral. I come under Lord Darth Vader's sanction."

At these words, though he did not fully believe them, Syn faltered, his pudgy hand falling away from the weapon at his side. Instead, he gaped at the form as it advanced closer put of the shadow, still impenetrably obscured.

"Darth… Darth Vader?" he gulped at length. "Why does he send you hear? Who are you?"

"A messenger, and a servant, nothing more," it replied, voice soft, yet impenetrable and seemingly unmarked by gender or ascent. "I am here on your ship as the enforcer of his will."

"And what does he wish?" Syn asked carefully. "Surely these aliens are of no interest to one such as him. They are weak and cowardly."

"No, the Ssi-Ruu do not concern our lord," it replied. "You seem to have taken care of them quite efficiently on your own, in any event."

The Grand Admiral peered at the figure even more closely. "Ssi-Ruu? I have heard of no name for them. How do you…"

"It is of no importance," came the reply suddenly, with a trace more emotion. "I am interested in far more personal and pressing concerns. Namely, your loyalties."

Syn straightened up instantly. "My loyalties lie with the Empire."

Though he could not see its face, the man knew that the figure peered at him carefully from its cover for a long moment as he stood tall with conviction, his sense of indignation, and below it an odd worry, rising. Syn was not easily cowed, but this intruder's very presence seemed to be wearing on his composure badly.

"That much is clear," the figure pressed, taking another step forward. "But it is not enough. Do you serve the new Empire, Lord Vader's Empire, or Palpatine's?"

Syn took a step back in response, bewildered. "What… what do you mean? I serve the Empire…"

In an instant, the figure was upon the man, and though he nearly matched it in height, it now seemed to tower above him, exuding an aura of indomitable power, and plain malice. Syn wavered, but before he could move fully, the gloved hand shot from its covering and grabbed the officer's white collar tightly, pulling him close.

"Enough. You will answer, or you will die. Are you still committed to Palpatine and his ways?"

The dark maw that still lingered under the cloaked being's hood stared down upon Syn's quivering face, filling his vision and his thoughts. _What did this… thing want?_ It spoke of being the new emperor's servant, yet there was something, a hint of duplicity in its words, noticeable even through their obvious distortion. Syn was no Force user, and never could hope to be one, but he had been around them, dark mages of great power. And he knew this creature was one of such capability.

But if that was true, why did it ask for the information it desired. Palpatine and his minions could tear information from the minds of their subjects as easily as Syn could activate a data reader. It wanted him to the inquisition answer under his own willpower. _But why?_ What did it want to hear?

Feeling the grip upon his tunic grow even more inescapable, the Grand Admiral at last managed to summon words. "No! Palpatine is dead. I owe no loyalty to him anymore. Lord Vader is my master now, our master."

After a moment of motionless silence in which the figure seemed to regard him again carefully, the grip faded away, and Syn fell back under his own power.

"As you say," it breathed, softly, and without perceptible emotion, turning its back on him.

As it began to pace away, Syn rubbed his throat reflexively, breathing heavily has he attempted to recover from the encounter. Relief flooded through his veins, but the dark presence the messenger exuded still prevented him from feeling any semblance of ease. Thus, when the figure paused again just as it passed the base of the massive statue, the man was instantly uneasy once more.

"A shame," it said plainly. "I would have thought a Grand Admiral's skills would have been more diverse." From its side, a beam of blue light split the air with a piercing hiss. "You lie poorly."

Syn's eyes bulged and he stumbled backwards, disbelieving. _But I…_

A nearby maintenance sensor recorded the discharge of iron-rich vaporized liquid in the Grand Admiral's quarters. The anomaly was logged and a cleaning droid was designated for cleanup during the next upkeep cycle. Sensing no other disturbances, the sensor returned to standby mode. All was well.

A lone Lambda-class shuttlecraft raced away from the quartet of dormant star destroyers, scything quickly through the cosmic emptiness before at last breaking with the physical coil and fading into the endlessness of hyperspace. At the small vessel's helm, a robed figure checked the readings and navigational gauges before it one last time, and satisfied, leaned back into its seat in silence. After absorbing the soft glow of the dim running lights that illuminated the cramped cockpit for a moment longer, it at last reached up, and in a deft motion, removed the hood that obscured its brow.

"It is done, then?" Lumiya asked almost mechanically, seated in the co-navigator's chair.

The Twi'lek pilot nodded once, allowing her lekku to sling freely from the base of her skull.

"He would not submit?"

There was no response.

Fixing her eyes keenly on her companion, the armored cyborg shifted her weight softly, meaningfully. "What happened back there? What _really_ happened?"

The blue-skinned alien did not meet her eyes, instead staring forward, motionless.

"It is of no consequence; I did not deem him trustworthy, and I executed my pledged duty." Her eyes slid shut, and she moved back even further upon the headrest. "Call up the file. There is still much work to be done."

Lumiya did not break her unblinking, probing gaze. "Of course."

Like all carriers of its class, the _August Judgment_'s port and starboard sides were pocked by numerous large cavities, each one a portal into a three-tiered docking bay, where shuttles, scouts, and starfighters berthed on repulsor tethers side by side. Illuminated by an ethereal glow from the surrounding, softly scalloped bulkheads, these areas were typically hives of activity, crews being loaded and off-loaded, ammunition and fuel being piped and carried in from the mains and dozen broad passages that opened onto the vast, open space, vessels moving back and forth through the permeable energy shield that served as the barrier with the icy blackness of space beyond. This day was no different; the carrier had been tasked with recovery and salvage of the fleet elements obliterated by the impossibly powerfully alien attackers that had vanished many time parts earlier, and with it all of the warships tasked with pursuing it.

As the first _Phantom_ transport retrofits, modified for just such a duty, began to return with salvage and survivors, hundreds of crewers prepared themselves for the onslaught. Stocky Unngoy readied their dense muscles for the wearying task of offloading whatever material the searchers might have deign appropriate to bring back. Others waited with personal hoverlifts, prepared to ferry the wounded to waiting medical areas. With them waited the globular, tentacled Huragok, each eager for equipment to repair, transports to refuel and restock. So too lingered armored Sangheili and towering Lekgolo, supervisors and enforcers of the operation. Both warrior races, they would have much preferred to be back on the battlefield, hunting humans or crushing heretics, but there was always menial work to be done on the side; it was the way of thing. There would be time for glory later.

The atmosphere fields hummed, and sets of brilliant guide lights erupted all across the waiting bays, each welcoming the approaching transports back to their berths. And so, one by one, the beetle-like ships passed into the gapping maw, slowing to a crawl, and alighted on invisible moorings with barely a sound. Then, a dozen circular hatch iris opened at once with a hiss of pressurized air, and the rush began. Few, save one preoccupied Sangheili dock master, noticed that one of the waiting ports remained vacant, its guiding lights still blinking in anticipation. But there were other matters to attend to; a single missing shuttle could wait. It was probably simply running behind, and the pilot would be disciplined accordingly.

Slowly, Migaw began to come too. His head still rang with a dull concussion, but the blow that had put him down had been glancing, designed to immobilize, not kill or even badly injure, and his thick skull had been able to absorb most of the impact. Nevertheless, the Unggoy did not relish the experience; it took what felt like and eternity for his eyes to begin to work again, much less move his weary limbs.

Upon fully cognizing that he was in fact still alive, and momentarily gagging on the breath tube that was still lodged into his mouth, the soldier began to cast about for what was going on. He and Cakap had just returned to their transport from the derelict that had frightened the other so, there had been something about food rations, he had seen the bodies of the rest of the crew collapsed on the floor, the strange dorm that was with them. Then a new figure had appeared from the cockpit…

Though not the most intelligent of his kind, and still coping with a tremor that ran between his ear nodules, Migaw could still put two and two together. The ship had been hijacked, and its crew immobilized (an element of the events that confused him greatly; virtually all those who were brazen or vicious enough to attack Holy Covenant vessel weren't likely to leave survivors).

Presently, a pair of voices intruded on his confused consciousness, and Migaw finally had some motivation to try and rouse himself. Looking about from where he lay prone on his stomach, the Unngoy deduced that he had been shoved into one of the storage compartments that flanked the main assembly bay at the rear of the transport. Beside him lay a body he assumed to be Cakap's by the tank on its back, breathing shallowly, but evidently still unconscious. Probably for the best, he contemplated sourly, Cakap didn't do well in situations where tact or subtly were required.

Slowly, he raised his head over the obstruction, giving him a clear view of the main disembarkation area, which was obscured slightly by a shimmering veil that sprang from the storage alcove's entrance bulkhead; a confining field. At the center of the room beyond, a drop door gapped open, a purplish light emanating from below. Beside it stood two beings, one obviously a Sangheili, who seemed to be bearing armor identical to that worn by the ship's pilot, although a distinctive scar on one side of his face clearly distinguished him. The other was far shorter and slighter of build, and though he was partially obscured by the darkness inside the ship, Migaw was quite sure he had never seen a being quite like him.

_Could it be a…_

The two were engaged in some sort of discussion, apparently oblivious to their new spectator. They spoke softly, but the rounded, almost bowl-like shape of the chamber propelled their voices to his ears. Nevertheless, the discourse was unintelligible.

"You're sure we're safe here?" the shorter one said in a timid voice, using words Migaw had never heard before.

"I cannot be certain," the Sangheili intoned in response. "However, if I executed the maneuver away from the primary return path undetected, this shuttle should remain unfound for at least a few days. The ancillary dorsal fins in warships of this class are marred by a sensor shadow all along their anterior sides. It would take an active scan or a terminal flyby to locate us, assuming reactor output is kept to a minimum."

The smaller being nodded slowly, and then glanced to the side, towards another one of the cargo areas. "So, what's your plan now?"

The other hefted its skullcap, which had been cradled in its huge hands, onto its wounded scalp and fastened it to the bodysuit that lay below. "To get both you and I into a position of security, I must take on the mantle of ship master of the Covenant armada once more. When my place has been assured and suspicion dissuaded, I will hopefully be able to arrange an incident that will distract ship's security long enough to get both you and… him" the Sangheili jerked its head towards one end of the assembly area, where another body lay motionless "to get onto a deep-range craft and escape the system. From there, you should be able to use data I can provide you on likely military patrol route used by the humans of this galaxy. You should be able to find safety with them." The figure looked away, slouching slightly. "For the moment, at least."

The shorter figure was motionless. "The humans… of this galaxy? But the wormhole… the crew…"

The Sangheili suddenly straightened, made sure its reflective shoulder plates were properly attached, and then stepped closer to the drop door, past his frozen companion. "I should be able to contact you again before the times comes, but if not, be ready to act on my signal. And be wary of Flitch, he will slay you if given the opportunity, no doubt. If the traitor tried, do not hesitate to kill him." The warrior glanced around the small chamber one last time. "The same goes for the crew of this vessel. Unarmed and imprisoned they may be, but do not underestimate them. They are all Covenant warriors, and will kill you if they can, both for locking them away, and simply for what you are."

Now at the very brim of the glowing hole, the Sangheili turned his long, narrow head back to the side a last time, a large, yellow eye fixed on the other. Without a word, it nodded once, deliberately and with respect.

Then the figure was gone, leaping into the pit without hesitation.


	31. Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Forty Nine

_I can feel it, even now. Their anger, their malice, their hunger, all swell in anticipation. Only blood will sate their desires. The time has come at last. It starts all over again. _

"Commander, geosynchronous orbit over Dahkur has been achieved."

The deck plates of Deep Space Nine's spartan bridge pit groaned and shook slightly underfoot as the stars outside of its main viewport slowed to an infinitesimal crawl. A few more tremors rocked the huge space station as its maneuvering thrusters reoriented it with the planet below, drifting on a lazy course around its yellow primary. Set at the center of the interior ring of the huge, circular space station, the bridge was now afforded an elliptical sliver of the blue-green world through its viewport, seemingly set ablaze by the system's distant star as it seemed to pass behind the body, heralding night below.

Perhaps the final night it would ever see, the station's commander reflected with a mix of bitterness and deep apprehension.

Kira Nerys, a native of the planet Bajor beyond, was not as religious as some of her people, but the significance of omens and portents were not lost upon her. The sight of the waning sun and the weary creaking of the vessel beneath her feet, though both quite normal occurrences, this day bore deeper meaning; they spoke of death.

Weaving between the trio of angled pylons that gave the station its distinctive, imposing form, a squadron of comparatively modest-sized warships swept past the viewscreen, vectoring out into the deep space beyond the planet and its silent protector, each priming its own array of weaponry. A triad of green, bird-like attack ships, a long, balled-headed central pylon flanked by down sloping wings, Klingon Birds-of-Prey, followed close behind their leader, a far more streamlined and compact vessel, which glinted white in the starlight. The _Defiant_, first of a long line of warships the United Federation of Planets had been forced to produce by a nearly endless series of dire conflicts, forged swiftly ahead, like a knight leading his vassals into battle on a mighty steed.

But the battle they forged into headlong was completely unlike those of old. There was no honor out there amidst the void, just chaos and desperate hopelessness. At one time, the force the squadron moved to reinforce would a crowning achievement of galactic diplomacy and unity; Federation cruisers and retrofits, Klingon attack vessels and battleships, Cardassian escort craft, even a handful of domed Ferengi marauders, all fighting as one. Now, though, the significance of this remarkable concord was completely forgotten; death took the allied and opposed with equal prejudice.

To one inexperienced in the conflict in which thousands upon thousands of lives were currently drowning, the forces that were overwhelming the unlikely associates would appear to actually be their compatriots; virtually every member of the horde that was bearing down upon Bajor had found its birth in the shipyards and foundries of one of the allies, and still bore embalms and marks of allegiance. But Kira Nerys knew better; what lay at the hearts of those ships were not human, or Klingon, or Cardassian, or Bajoran. No, they were not even deserving of the comparison. Creatures that bent the captured machines they inhabited to aims as abominable as their own were not worthy of a name befitting sentients. They were beasts, nothing more.

"What's the status on the evacuation of the city?" Kira demanded, glancing away from the large viewport. Behind her, a dozen Starfleet and Bajoran Militia officers worked various interfaces and displays, feverishly preparing the station's defenses and coordinating communications for the embattled fleet that was, for the moment, holding the invading force just beyond Bajor's outer orbital perimeter. However, nearly half an hour of intense combat with a numerically superior force had begun to wear down the system's weary defenders, and after that line was broken, Deep Space Nine would be the planet's final shield.

"About half the evac fleet has taken off and is heading out-system," a Bajoran officer replied. "The other group should be ready for liftoff in ten minutes. The rest of the population is being lead into the northern hills for the old Cardassian orbital shelters. Colonel Chechea reports that panic is widespread, but the operation is moving along as well as can be expected. The city should be mostly vacant within an hour."

Kira gritted her teeth. Those transports, assuming they could even be defended long enough to escape to warp, held perhaps four thousand people. Countless millions more of her brothers and sisters below were trapped, forced to seek shelter in a handful of old shelters and hidden bases leftover from the Dominion War and the long Cardassian occupation of the planet that had preceded it. If the fleet and her station fell, such fortifications would be worthless. Bajor and its people would die, and with them would die the last hopes of the quadrant and its people.

"Is Kai Ungtae on one of those ships?" Kira asked at last.

The Bajoran shook his head, a weak grin crossing his lips. "You know he would never leave the homeworld at a time like this. At last report, he was still leading the Vedek Assembly in their prayer to the Prophets".

Kira nodded reluctantly. The Vedek was the spiritual leader of the Bajoran people; she supposed it was all he could do to stay with his people in such a time, even doing so almost ensured his destruction. Of course, what point would his position have if all of his followers perished? It was better to stay on and grant at least some small hope to those who fought above and waited in terrible anticipation in fortified caverns below.

But it was just that, a small hope. The Prophets, enigmatic beings of great power who formed the basis of Bajoran theology and had protected the world from total domination by the Dominion a scant year before, seemed to have abandoned their children, withdrawing into the artificial wormhole that the previous invaders had been forced back through. These gods had protected them in the past from annihilation, but each of those events was foretold by the ancient texts and artifacts that formed the cores of temples across the globe; if the Prophets had not foreseen this new and most terrible threat, one that had already engulfed world after world, perhaps they could do nothing to stop it.

"Commander!" a cry suddenly broke the nervous hum of the control chamber, just as alert klaxons began to chime above. "Beta Wing reports a small enemy force has broken through the fallback line! They're heading directly for us!"

Kira snapped from the observation window, allowing the tension of impending combat to force the almost overwhelming dread of defeat from her mind. "Full alert stations! Get me a fix on the attackers, and increase shield strength to maximum."

The others immediately stepped up the execution of their respective duties, perhaps equally eager to ride themselves of the encroaching shadow, a blast door lowering over the main viewport and seemingly isolating them from worries beyond the one at hand.

She glanced at her second in command, a Bajoran woman of around her age. "Are there any evacuation craft in our immediate vicinity."

The officer nodded. "Yes sir. The _Nobel_ just departed dock one with the last of the station's civilian population."

"Can she get back within the station's shield radius before the attackers are in firing range?"

The officer checked a sensor station quickly. "Yes, I think so."

"The give the order," Kira said as calmly as she could. Without any remaining escort craft available, letting the shuttle try to escape on its own would be damning its crew to death if the approaching attack force decided to alter its objectives. Hopefully they'd be able to release them before another major attack assailed the station.

"I've got a clear lock," the tactical officer announced. "A Galaxy-class and what looks like an Andorian heavy freighter, both significantly damaged."

Kira frowned at the tactical display. Why would they bother with such a minimal force? The aliens were brutish and often suicidal in battle, but they weren't stupid, and though the tide of battle was turning in their favor, their numbers were not quite so overwhelming that they could waste a vessel like the Galaxy in a useless probing strike. And then there was the freighter, which was barely armed at all…

"Photon torpedoes, full spread!" she ordered suddenly, urgently. "Take that freighter out!"

The human officer at tactical frowned up at her. "Sir, the ship is still out of optimal range. I can't guarantee all of the…"

"Now!"

Emerging from the gray, armored exterior of the docking pylon closest to the approaching vessels, a pair of boxy weapons emplacements kicked in rapid succession, firing six golden bolts of brilliant luminescence into deep space. Crossing dozens of kilometers in seconds, the first chain of three torpedoes arced harmlessly past the long, spiraling freighter, but the next trio impacted its nose cone directly, sheering through weakened deflector shielding and tattered armor plate. Two tore all the way through the ship, exiting its aft side before detonating an instant later, while the third exploded inside the stricken ship, tearing away a huge portion of its dorsal hull.

The concussion sent the remnants of the ship spinning to the side, narrowly missing its escort before finally succumbing to its own overloading reactor and streaking the darkness with rivulets of molten duranium.

"Are you picking up any activity in the wreckage?" Kira demanded as soon as the display indicated the target had been destroyed.

The human officer shook his head, still confused. "Nothing sir, Just debris."

"The _Galaxy_ is returning fire!" another called out. "Brace!"

A second later, a stream of torpedoes and prolonged phaser bursts erupted from the curved bow of the still-charging capital ship, crossing the ever diminishing gap between itself and the station in moments. The first volley was intercepted harmlessly by the translucent sphere of the station's deflector, but a second round of fire caused the barrier to flicker, if only slightly.

Deep Space Nine's command section shuddered slightly from the recoil of the attack on the installation's shield generators, but none of the half dozen status displays around the room reported any significant damage.

"They must have burned out half their phaser emitters with that second full power volley," Kira's second commented.

"They don't intend on ever having to repair them," Kira muttered. She had never faced the invading creatures in direct combat before, but she had heard battle accounts from a dozen Federation and Klingon commanders. The aliens seemed to care absolutely nothing for their own lives, and if they saw the advantage for a tactical gain by doing so, a ship and its crew would sacrifice themselves in a moment. "Forward phasers, target its impulse engines. Get another torpedo spread on it too. The things on that ship want to get here pretty badly, and I don't intend on letting them."

The second attacker withstood the station's counterattack better than its companion, but the final burst of one grid tore through its forward deflector shield, and cut a shallow gash that spanned its entire saucer section. Undaunted, the warship pressed on, unloading another torrent of crimson torpedoes, which smashed the target's energy barrier in rapid succession, sending stronger tremors through the facility beyond. And again the station's pylons lit up with weapons fire, and now that their prey was so close, almost to the point of dashing itself on the shield bubble, few of the blasts missed. With a sparking, chaotic pulse of raw energy, the _Galaxy_-class detonated, showering the barrier with tiny fragments in a final defiant gesture.

Breathing a small sigh of relief along with her crew and sure that no more alien-controlled ships had broken the distant, bloody line, the commander had just enough time to turn her attention back to the _Nobel_, which had been spared the ravages of the last incursion, and was now waiting nervously just outside the station's protective globe. However, she was forced to delegate its redirection to her second as she was summoned to a priority comm station, and informed of a signal from the embattled fleet.

"Admiral."

Alynna Nechayev, typically drawn face made even gaunter by the strife and loss she had to endure over the last few months, watching superiors, friends, and comrades die one after another until she had found herself at the head of the scattered and desperate remnants of Starfleet, stared back at Commander Kira, attempting to retain some composure even as the bridge of her flagship, the _Sovereign_-class _Versailles_, bulked and groaned around her.

"Commander, I've just lost most of Omega wing and my right flank to enemy reinforcements." She paused as another impact shook the viewscreen image and sent showers of sparks racing along the tactical panels at the rear of her bridge. Her executive officer yelled an unintelligible order beyond view. "General K'Nera has ordered his remaining forces to begin to break off and make for rendezvous point RGN, and I intend to withdraw as well."

Kira stared at the screen, bile rising in her throat. "Admiral, you can't withdraw. Without the allied fleet here, Deep Space Nine and Bajor will be overrun. There are still millions of civilians down there!"

Nechayev stared back, unblinking and absolutely serious. "I understand the repercussions of this withdrawal all to well, Commander, but we simply cannot hold. The enemy numbers are too great, and if we do not withdraw soon, my ships will be surrounded and utterly destroyed. We were not prepared to face them here, not yet."

Kira moved to speak out again, but the Admiral stopped her with a wave of her hand. "There is nothing I can do, Kira. There is still fight left in the fleet, and if we can bring it to them on our terms, we may still have strength of arms to break their hold on the quadrant. If we stay and fall in a heroic last stand here and now, and we will fall, this alien plague will sweep across every world from here to the Founder homeworld, and the war will truly be lost. There is no other option."

Kira grabbed the sides of the display, and the fire in her eyes spoke of a mounting rage and sorrow that was screaming to be released, to destroy the cowardly Admiral where she sat. But the Bajoran said nothing. What could she say? The human was completely, undeniably correct. Bajor could not be traded for the lives of every sentient being within ten thousand light-years.

"We'll try to hold them long enough for you to evacuate as much of the crew as you can from…"

"No." Kira's voice returned to her at last. "I will not abandon my homeworld, and neither will my crew. I will relay your order to the Federation crew on station, but I cannot…"

The view of the _Versailles's_ suddenly burst into static.

"Admiral? Admiral!" The commander lunged at a passing comm officer. "Why have we lost contact?"

Before he could respond, however, the image reappeared, heavily distorted, but viewable. "Commander, the helm just picked up something strange on long range scanners at the edge of the system, but our sensor array is damaged," the image flickered out, and then in again. "… you confirm? Repeat, coordinates zero-nine-eight-eight, can you confirm anomaly?"

Kira glanced at her own comm officer, who was already programming the coordinates into his tracker. "Affirmative. Interference from the battle is heavy, but I am picking up some sort of supra-spatial anomaly. Possibly tachyonic. Wait, yes, there's definitely something there. A physical mass, possibly two."

The commander peered at the sensor display intently. Given their circumstances, such an occurrence shouldn't rate very high on her list of priorities, but there was something about this anomaly that just felt… odd.

"Sir, I'm also picking up something strange, just outside our deflector grid…"

"Are you positive, ensign?" Captain Gehirn asked, seemingly dumbstruck as she stared out at the starfield that lay beyond the _Magellan_'s smooth hull, deceptively serene and motionless. "Absolutely positive?"

Seated at the helm before her, the ensign at the helm nodded slowly, evidently equally disbelieving of the information he conveyed. "Yes, sir. There's no doubt; we're just outside of the Bajor planetary system."

When Picard had suggested that the captain of the alien vessel _Republica_ might expedite their journey back to the now embattled stronghold system, Gehirn had been dubious, but had nevertheless transmitted an astrological route map to the planet to the _Republica_, and allowed the larger ship to seize her own an some sort of tractor field, despite the protests of her tactical officer. He had doubted that the ship could get them to the battlefield any faster than the _Magellan_'s own top-of-the-line warp drive, and for a few brief moments at the start of their piggyback jump into "Hyperspace", as Picard had called it, she had begun to doubt her own acquiescence to the proposal. And yet, here they were, barely a half an hour later, right at doom's doorstep.

Recovering from her own shock, Gehirn fell back into her previous, battle-ready mood. "Get me a status report on the allied fleet and the planet, and see if you can contact Admiral Nechayev. I also want Picard back on that screen, now."

"Sir, I'm having trouble reestablishing contact with the _Republica_. The energy barrier around the vessel seems to have strengthened astronomically."

The captain's eyes narrowed, suspicion rising once more. "Onscreen."

The tubular cruiser blinked onto the screen, its dented and scarred hull only vaguely tinted by a scant reflective quality, the only sign that some sort of energy barrier existed. And yet the tactical analysis of the vessel indicated the field was mind-bogglingly powerful, quite unlike anything any member of the bridge crew had ever seen before.

"Sir, it's moving."

Sure enough, jets of burning, bluish light had begun to issue from the massive tubes that protruded from its aft hull, and the whole vessel was soon moving away from the Magellan at an impressive clip.

"Where is it going?" Gehirn demanded.

"I can't be sure, sir," the helm replied "but the sensor grid is detecting a very large number of vessels in close proximity to Bajor, along with a lot of phaser fire. I believe that the _Republica_ may be moving to engage the hostile fleet."

"COM-scan registers approximately three hundred contacts, Captain," a lieutenant reported, feeding the information to an upright, 2-dimenisonal display on which groups of starships were beginning to appear in relation to the huge opaque mass that represented the planet Gehirn had called Bajor. "Most appear to roughly similar in design to the _Magellan_, although there are also at least three other distinct structural patterns throughout the group. However, they all appear to be using the same low-yield weaponry and antimatter core systems."

Ryceed regarded the chart thoughtfully, her hands folded loosely behind her uniformed back. "So, Picard, which are our targets?"

The Starfleet captain, along with Councilor Organa, and the rest of the "ambassadorial" delegation regarded her with surprise and even confusion. Upon arrival in the system, when the Republica's sensors had confirmed a Federation fleet was under attack nearby, Commander Riker had made a comment about wishing to aide them. Without further prompting, despite all the caution and reservations about their mission she had shown over the last few days, Ryceed had jumped on the idea, and ordered her ship to forge forward into the thick of the battle. Perhaps, Picard reflected, the opportunity to take control of a battle situation after so many retreats, defeats, and desperate flights had been too tempting an opportunity for the Alliance captain to ignore. Indeed, he knew how she felt; there were few things left to him in the galaxy that Picard wouldn't have traded for his old command chair at that moment.

Nevertheless, he was at somewhat at a loss as to the answer to Ryceed's question. If the officer they had rescued from the _Cornwall_ was correct in her account of the Zerg power grab, differentiating between stolen and allied vessels might be difficult. "I'm afraid I'm not entirely certain, Captain. I think perhaps we should attempt to reestablish contact with Captain Gehirn. Starfleet has probably developed some system of identifying the seized ships at range."

A sudden sensation in the back of Picard's mind that made the thin hairs on his neck stand on end, all too familiar, directed his attention to the turbolift bank at the rear of the bridge. Issuing smoothly and silently from the main tube, draped as ever in his long, dark cloak, Tassadar stooped into view, and his very presence seemed to attract the notice of everyone nearby. Seemingly oblivious to the two dozen pairs of eyes now fixed on him, he brushed past the marines guarding the entry shafts, whom Major Truul held back with a silent hand motion, and swiftly mounted the low terraced steps to the command area.

His posture was as cool and unreadable as always, but those who had been around the Protoss before noticed that the nebulous pattern that typically glazed his glassy eyes was now supremely focused, each pupil now a roughly serrated slit. Tassadar at last halted before Captain Ryceed, whom had never even seen the alien before, even if she had heard mention of him spending most of their journey in one of the supply bays, and thus was cowed slightly by his imposing size and ominous presence.

"You wish to engage the Zerg?" he asked her, filling the chamber with his impressively powerful 'voice'. Quickly overcoming the oddity of his evidently psychic speech, Ryceed glanced at Picard, who nodded calmly, broadcasting what he hoped was an affirmation of the alien's status and authority on the subject.

Craning her neck up so to look him squarely in the eyes, which was in itself an unsettling experience, Ryceed cleared her throat. "If you mean the entities occupying the ships attacking this world's defensive fleet, then yes. Can you identify them?"

The high templar looked past her to the bridge's main viewport, which now bore the magnified images of a dozen distant dogfights, ships of all forms engaged in a confused and vicious melee. He watched the individual drama of each play out for a few long moments; a ship bursting into flames and then shattered from an unseen attacker, another lobbing glowing missiles at a pair of greenish ships that attempted in vain to avoid the blasts, packs of ships that wove amongst one another with reckless abandon, angling off whenever they targeted another vessel that had been separated from its respective squadron or task force. Once or twice a minute, one of the vessels in the macabre play would flare into an incandescent star, and then fade into nothingness, spreading what remained of the lives within to the stars.

At last, Tassadar deflated slightly from his full height and looked back down at Ryceed; a Protoss nod of sorts. "I shall guide your weapons as best I can. Does the artificial mind Cortana still reside within your vessel's computer core? I require its assistance."

"Right here, big guy." Cortana flickered into view on a vacant display screen. "What do you need?"

_They die. We grow. The Queen's will be done_.

Deep within the artificial shell of the mechanical beast, forged by puny creatures that called themselves Klingons, now slaves in their own machine, a mind lay open, riveted. Hideous and glorious, a mound of livid convulsing flesh, its physical tendrils stretched throughout the possessed vessel feeding constantly on the biomass of lesser servants, provide for its sole usage. Other beings shambled erratically through the iron titans corroded bowels, endlessly maintaining the shell and the consciousness it housed, never resting, never sleeping. Still more stood at panels and controls that gave the ship guidance and direction, some virtually fused to their charges by grasping strands of scaled flesh, awaiting orders with animalistic eagerness. But not one of them thought, or felt any emotion save the most base of desires. There was only driving force there, one mind for all.

But for all its power, its ultimate will and authority over spawn innumerable, it was but a servant itself. Though supremely clever and driven in its own right, there was a far greater force always just at the edge of its being, inescapable and privy to its every machination and motivation. The Queen. She was all, the mother of the great swarm and all its children; it existed to serve her and make her every dream an immutable element of reality. And this shipboard mind was one of her most cherished minions, a direct executor of her will, one whom was born with both intellect and a will to command; it was a Celebrate, immortal and unstoppable.

As both gift and method of its vital service, the Celebrate was granted the control of a brood of its own mindless, inherently loyal slaves, and on this day it had bent them to the favored pursuit of the swarm; slaughter. Through the eyes of its children, the mind watched with satisfaction as an insurmountable tide smashed against the pitiful adversaries the Queen had tasked it to destroy in endless hammer blows of energy, metal, and flesh. Using mechanical beasts seized from their now besieged creators, the Celebrate, directly reaching into a thousand minds, slowly wore away at line after lines, formation after formation of enemies, relishing the dying flash of each vessel. Even if it had not been bred to be incapable of defying the Queen's will, it would have hunted these pitiful nonetheless; be it by some twisted aspect of its genetics, or a simple glorious depravity of its personality, the mind enjoyed war, and reveled in the dying breaths of every single sentient that died within the range of its comprehension. And range was long.

Of course, the mind's reaction to the deaths of its own servants was somewhat different. Each time one of the ships under its dominion succumbed to desperate enemy weapons fire, it felt the very slightest pang of psychic release somewhere in the endless roles and knots of its neural cord, but was only most minor of annoyances, and quite easy to ignore. The minions on each ship were unthinking, easily replaceable tools, nothing more; they were bred and mutated to serve and die unquestioningly. It mattered not how many had to be sacrificed to crush those who opposed the swarm. In any event, there were plenty more to replace those who fell; as with most engagements in which servants of the Queen fought, the odds were thoroughly one-sided.

A new wave of absences flickered into the Celebrate's notice, registering in faster succession than was normal. However, the mind was untroubled by the loss, and was more focused on another area of the battle, where his horde was close to encircling an impressive number of holdouts. With barely a thought, it sent a new wave of minions to replace those who had been erased from the battlefield, and returned to plotting the target squadron's imminent extermination. However, mere moments after the reinforcements reached their new assigned positions, they too disappeared. This still was not unusual enough by itself to attract the Celebrate's full attentions, but something new accompanied the losses this time.

There was another great mind at work in this star system now.

Forgetting its previous pursuit, the Celebrate turned its full gaze to the sector of the battle where he felt the emerging presence. It was on a far fringe, and few enemy vessels remained functioning within the area, but though the eyes of one its minions on a nearby ship, he saw new vessel plowing through the wreckage previous duels and assaults had left drifting in its path. It was of a completely alien design, an elongated oval of grayish metal, larger than most of the combatants already assembled, and evidently already bearing many scars of battle.

As the mind watched, a pair of vessels under its command broke from their pursuits of another ship and angled for the large ship, each unleashing a torrent of deadly beams and pinpoints of light. The onslaught, sufficient to give pause to even the greatest of warships immersed in the fray, impacted their target unperturbed by any extended energy field, and unleashed an explosion of impressive magnitude, one bright enough to give the observing creature to squint its eyes slightly. However, when the discharged distortion faded away into the night moments later, the segment of hull the attack had stricken seemed completely unharmed, the only sign of any effect at all being a faint flicker of bluish white over the target area.

A moment later, without pausing in its course deeper into the fray, nodules and turrets along the thing's hull trained on the harrowing vessels and unleashed their own pulses of brilliant light. The mind had a brief moment to marvel at their form and movement, quite unlike any weapons the swarm or its enemies employed, before the long bolts found their way to the other ships, striking with pinpoint accuracy.

Both exploded instantly.

Had the Celebrate been spawned with eyes, they would have bulged. The two attackers had been among the most power hulks at its disposal, and yet each had been obliterated completely by a single shot from the new comer. Not even the titanic vessel the mind had chosen for itself possessed such great power.

Its original targets forgotten, the mind suddenly bent its total focus on the marauding ship, which continued to bat aside any opposition with contemptuous ease, and seized the primitive pilots of nearly a hundred of his ships, forcibly focusing them on the new threat. As one, vessels of all sizes and class broke from previous engagements and rocketed full tilt through space, leaving their former opponents bewildered and alone in unexpectedly vacant space. The first wave of this new assault met the starship as it entered the lunar orbital ring of the planet below.

It was a slaughter. Even as scores of ships emptied their full armament upon the metal beast, it moved on unperturbed, absorbing each blow as though it were a wayward micrometeoroid, and returning the onslaught a thousand fold, methodically destroying squadron after squadron with precise blows. It appeared that many of the weapons arrayed on its hull were inoperable, or simply not engaged, and thus the return fire was not sufficient in volume to combat all of its attackers at once, but considering the effectiveness of each strike, and the comparable uselessness of the Celebrate's assault, it hardly mattered.

A new sensation had begun to take hold of the mind's thoughts; fear. The terrible feeling was brought on not only by the seeming impotence of the swarm against this new threat, but also the growing power and focus of the Celebrate could sense emanating from the ship's core. This opposing mind seemed to be able to target and devastate each successive target without pause or misfire; indeed, even in hotspots where near-identical combatants were locked in mortal combat mere ship lengths apart, the foreign mind seemed able to locate brood-held vessels without any effort at all, guiding barrages of annihilating strikes with nary a miss or impact on a defender's hull.

And now the Celebrate came to realize there was an even more basic cause of his fear. The attacker's unbreakable stride was taking it straight into the heart of the mind's swarm; it was seeking out the heart of its enemies.

Now the Celebrate's priorities changed completely. Completely abandoning all thoughts of his previous tactics and ambitions during the earlier part of the engagement, it drew all of the ships it could into a vast wall before its command ship, a barrier of a hundred thousand lives arrayed against the approaching assassin.

The ship met the forward face of this wall in moments, so besieged by torpedoes and phaser bursts that it was nothing more than a vague outline in the blinding storm. The barrier collapsed inwards immediately, the warships that had not been directly in its path and thus survived unscathed now desperately trying to halt it from the rear as still more ships beyond formed into a loose knot, suddenly the front line.

By now, the Celebrate's own ship was in motion, veering away from the rapidly-disintegrating bulwark at full speed, its pilots now filled with their central mind's terror as it continued to mount with each failed defense. Escape had become the Celebrate's sole ambition now, and it bent its crew toward the task of readying his vessel for warp flight with an eagerness and furious need unprecedented through its entire preceding existence.

And low, the stalling tactic at least seemed to be bearing fruit; motivated by their master's terror, the remnants of the mind's vanguard had begun dashing their vessels full speed against the attacker's blunt nose. The bluish light that seemed to render the craft impervious to damage at last began to flicker more noticeably under the renewed assault, and be it by actual damage, or the simple opposing inertia imparted by the kamikaze attacks, the attacker slowed in its advance. Perhaps, the mind considered, this offending thing was not quite as invincible as had first been suspected.

Then an explosion split space, not one engulfing a defending ship, but rather far closer. One of the slaves manning a control station on the vessel's command bridge moaned. The swarm flagship was under attack. The Celebrate was in deadly danger.

Whatever semblance of confidence that had renewed itself amidst the controller's cluttered thoughts evaporated instantly, and it began to search desperately for the new harasser.

Seven small, almost inconsequential flecks of metal raced into the mind's direct field of notice, surging forward from the chaos that still raged far aft of the command ship. The Celebrate was about to disregard them as fragments of debris and continue its search, but a flurry of bolts and sparks of burning light erupting from them dragged his attention back. A second later, a large number of the multicolored cloud disappeared into a protruding section of his mechanical shell, losing only a few of its number to the ship's shield bubble before it gave way, and the pylon was enveloped in a massive cloud of expanding flame and charred detritus.

As the tiny squadron surged forward for another attack, a flurry of green and golden bolts from the fleeing titan forced them to break formation. This apparent fear for their own safety once again inspired some hope in the Celebrate; if these vessels could be harmed by those weapons, then they might be held off long enough for the command ship to escape the gravitic shadow of the rapidly receding planet that still blocked the mind escape. Only a few more moments…

A new series of detonations against the metal shell's deflector shields, this time impacting its forward section. Confused, the Celebrate cast its attention to the source of the attack; none of the tiny harrying craft could have angled a weapon to strike that part of its ship. An instant later, the mind's puzzlement dissolved.

The Celebrate and his broods may have forgotten the previous battle, but the weary defenders of the world they had sought to engulf had not.

As the forward section of the fleeing _Negh'Var_-class battleship evaporated under the combined assault of a dozen Starfleet and Klingon warships, a cheer swept the _Republica_'s bridge. Though the battle had been a veritable slaughter, the sheer volume of opposition the ship had faced pursing the Zerg flagship had been highly unsettling, and towards the end of the pursuit, the waves of suicide attacks had actually begun to deplete the cruiser's deflector field, and inflicted minor damage to some of the ship's shield generators. Nevertheless, the sheer disparity in firepower between the Mon Calamari ship and their opponents was not lost on any of the crew, especially not Captain Ryceed and the Federation officers, although true repercussions of the realization had yet to sink in.

Still, such a bold attack would not have been possible without the aid of Cortana and Tassadar. With Ryceed's grudging permission, the former had taken full control of the ship's active sensors and FoF tagging systems, and the Protoss instructed Ryceed to have her ship plunge straight into the thick of the melee around Bajor. When she had instructed her crew to do as much, the templar had collapsed into some sort of meditative posture on the deck before the main viewport, and had started listing coordinates relative to the ship's bow as they moved into the battle, each of which Cortana applied to a warship battling around them. Ryceed's gunners could then begin to pick off Zerg-infested ships without risk of accidentally destroying those still controlled by thinking crews.

It was all everyone else on the bridge could do to stand in awe of Tassadar's cold, methodical precision, and when he had directed the captain to lock in course to pursue a ship at the very heart of the enemy's fleet, the flagship, she had complied immediately. Considering the exponential increase in resistance this had triggered, it seemed that the Protoss' hunch, or whatever it was, had been correct.

"Captain, a large number of the defending warships have broken of pursuit," an officer announced, quickly settling back into the conflict at hand.

"Their squad formations appear to be breaking apart as well, sir. Some even appear to have stopped functioning altogether," another confirmed, plainly puzzled.

Ryceed frowned. "They're abandoning ship?"

"No." Tassadar had not yet moved from his meditative position. "When the Zerg Celebrate on that ship was killed, its control over the broods here disappeared. Without direction, the drones piloting those vessels are nothing more than animals."

"Sir, General Solo is requesting permission to continue the attack," a communications officer called from a bank of transceiver panels. When the Celebrate's final assault had reached its fiercest, Ryceed had been forced to order the sublight drives to slow in order to reduce the possibility of increased damage from the kamikaze attacks. Already prepped for flight, the _Millennium Falcon_ and the cruiser's complement of A-Wings had been launched to prevent the flagship from escaping, although they're efforts had been made somewhat irrelevant due to the timely arrival of a remnant of the Bajoran defense fleet.

"Permission granted," Ryceed replied, walking over to a holographic display of the surrounding area, on which a handful of the tagged ships still appeared to be fighting, although they're maneuvers had become highly erratic and barrages random, occasional striking their own ships. "Launch squadrons one and two to assist them. Instruct General Solo to target those ships that seem to be flying erratically. They might still be able to do some damage."

"Captain." Councilor Organa's attention was fixed on the main viewport, which still was trained on the location of the Zerg battleship, now drifting debris, beyond which the dozen victorious starships hung in space, apparently still deciding how to react to the newcomers. "Perhaps we should attempt communications with the local fleet now. I'm certain they are most appreciative of our assistance here, but I doubt ignoring them will preserve our welcome long."

Picard nodded in agreement. "Yes, we should reestablish contact with the _Magellan_ as soon as possible. Captain Gehirn ought to serve as an effective intermediary between us and the Federation fleet."

As the humans behind him busied themselves with the resolution of the battle, Tassadar slowly rose, allowing his limbs to stretch and hang loose for a moment. The detection of the Zerg minds on those ships had not been difficult, the terrible psionic impression they left on his mind even from great range was unmistakable, but the effort had drained him. Evidently, even after so long, he had not fully recovered from the encounter his with that dark-clad human on the bridge of the Alliance flagship. This lingering weariness, whose source was seemingly completely unable to identify, persisted to occupy and disturb the Protoss' mind. It was as if the well of psionic energy all of his people could call upon for strength, high templar especially, was somehow blocked, and only a trickle of the invigorating power he was used to could reach him.

Determined to find the root of the strange weakness before it stymied his energy further, Tassadar began to turn from the viewport and was about to make for the calm, quiet emptiness of the ship's storage bays when a distant object, just barely visible through the thick transparisteel window, caught his slowly-fluctuating eye. A mere silhouette against the darkening green of the world beyond, he was able to make out a spindly form, evidently in orbit, circular and bisected by a trio of long pylons. In the sea of starships and scattered detritus around Bajor, such a sight would not normally have held his notice, but he felt something more from it now, strange. There was the vaguest hint of sentient thought emanating from the construction, virtually imperceptible at this range, but with it too was something that did not belong. A raw, thoughtless, animalistic presence.

Even with their master dead, it seemed that the Zerg had one last hunting ground open to them yet.


	32. Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty

Uneasy, confused dreams shattered by a sudden sound, Reginald Barclay awoke from his fitful slumber with a violent start.

It took him a moment to clear away the cobwebs of sleep and fully adapt to his surroundings and remember the unfortunate circumstances that had heralded them, but even before his eyes readjusted to the light in the chamber beyond his eyelids, the man was struck by an all too familiar feeling. Intense, unshakable nervousness.

He had messed something important up. Badly.

Motivated by sudden dread, Barclay quickly focused on his immediate situation; he was propped up against the smooth, gently-contoured wall in the assembly area which the Arbiter had managed to capture, his limbs arrayed lazily around him as if he had dozed off and flopped down where he stood. Considering what he had been through those last few hours, it was not an unlikely possibility.

He, along with the whole interior of the vessel, was bathed in a low, hazy light, just strong enough so that he could make out the circular form of the cargo chamber beyond, which was further illuminated by the silvery sheer of several energy fields, which blocked off, Barclay remembered, makeshift alcove holding cells for the ship's crew. He couldn't make out any movement beyond the screen that was in his line of sight; perhaps they were all still unconscious.

_Or perhaps they're just waiting._

Shivering at the thought, Barclay turned his attention back to the small assembly hall… and immediately jerked backward, fumbling at the deck plate around him in a panic. Just across the narrow corridor, and one shallow recess to the left, Flitch, Imperial Infiltrator and originator of Barclay's current plight, sat hunched, and very much awake. His slightly sunken, cold eyes trained on his supposed warden, Flitch gently cradled his right hand in his other, the tips of a few of its fingers a livid, unnatural red. Directly below them, clapping his legs to the deck plate via a hastily inserted bolt, a pair of large, very solid cuffs wrapped around his ankles, joined by a bright arc of bluish light. Evidently, his attempt to remove the binds had been met with a rather unwelcome and unpleasant deterrent.

At last laying hold of the claw-like plasma rifle that was propped up next to him, Barclay shakily took the weapon in both hands and raised it at his prisoner unsteadily, fingers positioned rather near its firing stud. Flitch's eyes flickered to the weapon momentarily, but he turned his attention just as quickly back to the face of its wielder, suppressing any hint of concern that might weaken his, sharp, bitter expression.

After a long, tenuous silence, the Imperial at last let out a sigh of disgust. "So are you going to shoot me, or just hold that thing there until your twitching fingers do it for you?"

Barclay gritted his teeth, and tried to think over the thunderous beating of his heart. _It's alright, Reginald. You didn't doze off for too long. He's still restrained. Besides, you've got the gun; you're the one in control._

Still staring at his captive in anxiety, Barclay lowered the rifle as smoothly as he could, both because of his own attempts to sooth himself were beginning to calm his frazzled nerves, and because his arms were beginning to whine with stress at their extended, weight-bearing posture. When the weapon, still clasped firmly in the Federation officer's white-knuckled hands, reached floor level, Barclay finally summoned enough courage to clear his throat of phlegm and form words with his dry tongue.

"How long have you been awake?" The question did not sound as commanding as he hoped it would, but it was a start.

Flitch let out a humorless snicker. "Quite a keeper that brute set for me. Can't even handle a simple guard job without nodding off."

Barclay recognized the evasive nature of Flitch's reply, but he didn't really feel like pressing further; obviously, the spy had not been awake for long, as the burns on his fingers and the low sound that had awoken the other (an utterance of pain, Barclay presumed) suggested that he had just begun to try the plasma binders the Arbiter had placed on him before departing for weaknesses. He was still bolted to the floor and well out of reach of his former hostage, no harm had been done. Besides, Barclay didn't particularly feel like lingering over the topic of his sudden exhaustion any longer than necessary; he had been little more than worry to his comrades since their whole dangerous and confused voyage had begun, and the whole affair was completely beyond his experience. If he was barely in his element on a peaceful day in the _Enterprise_'s Main Engineering, how could he be expected to cope with being captured, shot at, forced to shoot, shoved in and out of battles, and kidnapped, over and over again with very little rest between each new occurrence. And now his bewilderment had nearly gotten himself killed. Again.

Noting that Flitch was still sneering at him definitely, Barclay cast about once more for something authoritative to say. "Um… don't try to get out of those cuffs again. After what you did to me and those officers in the docking bay, I would hesitate to shoot you."

Flitch snorted in contempt. "I doubt if you have what it takes to kill a man, at all. You and your Federation friends always struck me as mewling, Caamasi-babe weaklings."

"You'd be surprised," Barclay replied softly, rather bewildered by his own words. But yes, he remembered all too clearly, the fingers that clutched his weapon were not clean of Imperial blood.

The infiltrator raised an eyebrow at the comment, but did not reply, shaking his head and lying back against his bulkhead instead. Still anxious, but feeling more in control than he had a minute before, Barclay mimicked the movement, keeping his weapon close at his side.

"Actually, I'm rather surprised that I'm alive right now at all," Flitch remarked at length, his head now leaning on the palms of his hands as he lay back, staring at the low glow of the illumination panels above. "After our last encounter, I would have figured that alien would have killed as soon as he had the opportunity. His species seemed like a rather savage one."

Flitch craned his neck slightly and glanced around. "Where is that xeno anyways? And where are we? I would have figured you and your brutish friend would have been all too eager to return to your Rebel conspirators with your prize."

Flitch didn't strike Barclay as the particularly talkative type, especially not in his situation, but as long as he was talking, he couldn't actively be trying to get free. Hopefully.

"The navigation systems of the shuttle you stole were destroyed during the struggle, and we were stranded in the middle of the battle between those alien ships and the Star Destroyer. I can only guess that the _Republica_ fled through the wormhole when it had an opportunity. After that…"

Flitch sat up abruptly, a sudden, dark emotion playing across his face. "What do you mean, 'fled through the wormhole'?" he demanded. "The Rebel ship couldn't have gotten past the intercept coordinates to the anomaly. I saw the blockading destroyer myself."

Barclay frowned. "Of course were reached it. How else would we be stranded in this galaxy, and come into contact with that Covenant… those alien warships?"

It hit the infiltrator all in an instant; the strange, distorted mental lapse while he had been making the final preparations for his escape, the tension of the crew… How could he have been so focused on the deception to have let that that was so obvious escape him? And now, he was…

"This… this is one of the alien ships?" he managed.

Barclay nodded slowly. "The Arbiter managed to commandeer one of their scouts and bring us onboard to hide. Apparently, the natives of this galaxy don't particular like humans. He's off somewhere now trying to arrange out escape from the fleet, I think."

His mouth drawn into a half-sneer, Flitch turned away, grappling with what he had heard. _Stranded? Here?_ With this cowardly Rebel sympathizer and the alien brute, trapped in a galaxy far removed from civilization, real human civilization. Surely, if the Empire still held force in this place, they would have discovered him by now. Perhaps it would have been better to have died from that blow that had laid him low before.

With Flitch still coming to grips with the situation he had forced himself into, the tedious conversation came to abrupt end, and Barclay was left once more to combat a mixture of tiredness, fear and boredom. Feeling the tendrils of unbidden sleep return to the edge of his mind, the Federation officer rose slowly, weapon still in hand, and paced out into the larger holding chamber, thinking that he might at least stretch his legs while he waited for word from the Arbiter.

It was then that Barclay realized his nap had not been nearly as harmless as he had first hoped. Rather than sealed shut, as it had set itself automatically after the alien warrior's departure, the access iris in the middle of the chamber was open once more, revealing the soft glow of the anti-gravity beam that the ship still projected upon to its far larger host craft, a light that had been barely noticeable from where Barclay had been sitting before.

Now too in full view were the two cargo alcoves that flanked the whole, converted to serve as cells. One, still obscured by a curtain of shimmering light, still held within two prone figures, large and small, the Sangheili and Kig-Yar, the Arbiter had called them. But the other…

The other was completely vacant. No immaterial sheen blocked its entry point, and the two squat Unggoy that it was supposed to house were equally absent. In their place, a scattering of electronic circuits and wires, piled on top of a small metal plate, lay near a similarly-shaped hole in the smooth bulkhead, within which a few broken cords sizzled with intermittent light.

Flustered, Barclay glanced back at Flitch, who sat where he had been bolted before, still brooding in silence. The spy could not have done this; the aliens had done it themselves while the humans slept.

A small voice in the back of Barclay's mind spoke up_; Well, at least they didn't kill you while you slept._

The sentiment would have been more comforting if he didn't suspect it was a mere stay of execution.

Without breaking his stride, the Arbiter attempted to adjust the large, golden poltroon of armor that rested on his left shoulder, no easy feat considering its size and weight. A swift tug and shove pushed it into more appropriate alignment with the rest of his equally radiant outfit, but its weight still felt alien upon the Sangheili's back. Indeed, the entire costume, a jet-black bodysuit overlaid by plate after plate of reflective gold armor, topped with a tri-finned helm, felt exceedingly uncomfortable. Even when he had still served with honor in the ranks of the Covenant Armada as a shipmaster, he had preferred only to wear the garb of his station when it was required of him; the dark armor of a special operation soldier was far more comfortable and functional. Unfortunately, on this occasion, such a display would most certainly be required, especially since the spare dress had been explicitly offered to him on the ship commander's orders.

Flanked by a pair of Sangheili troopers, impressive specimens decked out in black and dark gray raiment, the garb of a shipmaster's personal guard, the Arbiter marched down the wide, axial corridor that connected the core of the carrier _August Judgment_ to the outer levels of the warship, moving with the overwhelming presence and refined grace expected of one of his station. As the small procession passed, lesser Sangheili and any other soldier within view paused to offer their respects to the visiting master, nodding or bowing, depending on their rank and race. There was a time when he had been exhilarated by this sort of reverence; now it disturbed him. He had lived life, albeit for only a short time, amongst the lowest, most expendable levels of society, and he had experienced all too harshly the tribulations the rank and file had to endure. Nevertheless, it would be unwise to try and stop such behavior now; appearances were essential, all of this was mere pretense.

Arriving at the set of double, rectangular doors that heralded the entry into the very heart of the vessel, the two escorts each moved to one side of one of the doors, unspeaking and at perfect attention, energy swords proudly displayed upon their hip notches and plasma rifles in their hands. One of them nodded to the Arbiter, and he approached the wide, reddish door, which slid open silently in anticipation of his entry.

The chamber beyond was significantly smaller than the one the warrior was used to in his old flagship, natural for a ship that was only half the size, and as such the required attendants were far more densely packed. Red and black armored soldiers stood at even intervals along the softly-glowing walls, while others patrolled the narrow crew pit below the room's characteristic, raised command dais. Above this area, where several Huragok and even a few insectoid Yanme'e worked under heavy observation, the ship's commander and his highest officers, dressed in gold and silver respectively, waited, oblivious for the moment to the holographic displays that hung in the air all around them.

Directed by an unusually tall major, the Arbiter crossed the chamber with the same refinement and authority he had displayed in the exterior hall, mounting the steep ramp that lead up to the command platform in a few easy strides. The sight awaiting him at the top was an expected, though not pleasant one.

Galo 'Nefaaleme, adorned in a manner almost identical to his guest, offered him a deep nodding bow, one which the Arbiter returned, careful not to dip quite as far as the first had. Technically, as the executor of a major expeditionary task force (even if it had been largely annihilated), he outranked the head shipmaster of this carrier group and its escort, but the distinction was minimal, at least officially, and 'Nefaaleme more than made up for his lower rank with an infamously disarming presence, and more importantly, with his connections amongst the higher tiers of the Sangheili hierarchy, more than likely all the way up to the Sangheili ranks of the High Council. The Arbiter had worked with him before, when both were still mid-level ship's adjuncts, and hated every moment of the experience. He suspected the feeling was mutual.

"My greetings, Shipmaster Teno 'Falanamee," he said smoothly, carefully raising his arched neck and leveling his eyes with the other warrior. "I am gratified to find you still within this realm, as are, I'm sure, the Hierarchs. I hear that you are among their favored instruments; no doubt they would have been frustrated by your death."

"My life is for Prophets and their way, Shipmaster Galo 'Nefaaleme," the Arbiter replied, carefully returning the greeting. "You have sent word, then?"

'Nefaaleme made a sweeping gesture towards a nearby holo-panel. "A priority probe was dispatched to _High Charity_ as soon as the medical observes confirmed your identity and condition."

"And the local armada executor?"

The carrier's master pursed his upper mandibles slightly into a frown. "As the _Blessed Fire_ and your own flagship were destroyed during the battle, with their masters, as far as was known at the time, of course, slain in combat, along with the highest ranking Prophet in observation of the subjugation of this system, there was some dispute as to whom would assume control of the forces in this area. As of this moment, all fleets have been instructed to hold position around the human world; the Hierarchs have dispatched another of their observers to re-delegate command, as well as to oversee some matter pertaining to the subjugated planet."

The Arbiter listened impassively. Normally, as the ranking local officer he would have been able to reassume command of all the warships in the area immediately, but as he had lost his vessel and had been noted as killed in action, his status would have to be reaffirmed by a Prophet or member of the Council before he again could exercise command powers or assume control of a vessel like 'Nefaaleme's, barring the emergence of an imminent threat to the armada. No doubt the other shipmaster would remind him of this if he tried, and for the moment at least, the Arbiter was willing to play guest.

Noting the inquisitive stare now fixed upon him, the Arbiter spoke up once more. "Yes, our forces must have been thrown into disarray by the appearance of the hostile intruders, but I trust that the remaining humans in this system have been eliminated, and the second attack repelled." Not giving the second time to respond, the Arbiter pushed easily past him and his attending officers, as to get a better view of the main holographic display, which was currently mimicking the star system and the Covenant fleet elements therein. "I wish casualty statistics from my command, the Fleet of Particular Justice, as well as figures on the readiness of the invasion force as a whole. We must be prepared for another incursion, especially if more holy Prophets are to arrive here soon."

'Nefaaleme remained where he stood, following his superior carefully with his gaze, perhaps a bit too carefully. No doubt he was eager to learn the specifics of what had transpired near the wormhole; what the hostile ships were, why the observing Prophet's ship had been so close to the battle, and what had become of the warships that had been sent into the strange spatial rift after the invaders after they had been beaten back. Of course, the Arbiter had to avoid such inquiries as long as possible; although he had supposedly been commanding the vessel at the forefront of the incident, the version now standing on the _August Judgment's_ overbridge had been elsewhere engaged during that period. What little he knew of what had happened had been extrapolated from snippets of broadband communications amongst the recovery fleet during his time onboard the captured salvage ship.

"At once, shipmaster." The reply to the request was overtly calm and dutiful, but the Arbiter could tell that 'Nefaaleme's curiosity was beginning to overcome his interest in the current status of the surrounding battle fleet.

Once an attendant had been dispatched to call up the required information, the carrier's master turned his attention back to the other gold-draped commander, moving up alongside him as he continued to inspect the positioning of each individual task force in the planetary system. Allowing the Arbiter only a moment's further contemplation, he raised his throaty voice once more. "I must admit a certain curiosity to the circumstances surrounding your arrival onboard my vessel, shipmaster. If you would permit me a few questions?"

It was not the inquiry the Arbiter had feared, fortunately, but there was still something in the other's tone that he found somewhat unsettling, a timber that spoke of motive beyond mere curiosity. Nevertheless, he motioned for the warrior to continue, attention still fixed upon the floating images above.

"How did you escape the _Ascendant Justice_ before its destruction?" The question was straight-forward and expected, but the shipmaster's tone still wore on the Arbiter's mind. "Surely, you did not abandon your flagship while it still was capable of combat?"

So that was it; Galo 'Nefaaleme suspected him of cowardice. For any soldier, especially the commander of a battleship, to flee from his post unordered, even in the face of insurmountable odds, was an ultimate act of dishonor, and beyond that, heresy. And heresy was punishable by death, something the Arbiter knew all too well. Still, he had faced such a fate before, and feared it little; however, there were more lives at stake now than his own, and he would not fail either Barclay or his people. Not again.

His fabrication had to be both impressive and unimpeachable.

Turning his head fractionally towards 'Nefaaleme, although not enough to fully reveal the distinct stiffening of his expression, the Arbiter delievered his answer as easily as he could manage. "After the intruder's largest warship began to breach my flagship's defensive fields and hull, I quickly lost contact with most weapons and propulsion control. A few moments later, an uncontrolled hull breach on the same level as the _Ascendant Justice's_ overbridge placed my command crew and me in immanent danger of decompression. As such, I issued the order for those warriors with more ceremonial armor equipped to don atmosphere-sealed gear, as I did myself. It was quite clear that our strike force was outmatched, and reinforcement would not be able to lend aid in time to save my flagship and its crew, but nevertheless I issued orders for all stations to remain active and at battle readiness; were it the will of the god's that we die in combat there, I would not deny them. To order a retreat would have sullied the memory of the noble Prophet who died at the enemy's hand. And indeed, most of my warriors did embark upon the Great Journey, fighting and dying for the word of the gods."

"But you did not. How?"

"I cannot say. When the bridge chamber was finally breached, I must have been knocked unconscious, and when I awoke, I found myself lodged in one of the bridge's ancillary evacuation pods, my atmosphere suit suffering from a breach." He inclined his sloped forehead slightly, bringing more clearly into the view the large, raw gash across his upper jaw and scalp that still marred and accentuated his predatory features. "I can only cite divine influence in this salvation; it would have been my wish to perish in battle with my ship, but it seems the Forerunners have designs for me yet. I bear this scar as a mark of duty, and a reminder of their grace."

'Nefaaleme bowed slightly in solidarity with the religious affirmation. He seemed impressed with his superior's piety; hopefully, that perceived common faith would cloud whatever doubts he yet held.

"After repairing the helm of my survival armor, I interfaced with the pod's maneuvering systems and managed to guide it out of the heavier area of debris from my vessel, and upon locating a derelict transport vessel that had also been blown free, I transferred over and flew it to one of the _August Judgment's_ landing decks amid one of the returning salvage squadrons. I then reported to a duty major, submitted to a DNA scan and medical analysis, and reported here." The Arbiter carefully glossed over the details of this last portion of his tale, especially those related to the medical assessment; he had merely allowed the attending orderly to confirm his identify with a DNA sample and sterilize the wound on his head, but had slipped away before any further tests could be undertaken. Though he was biologically and officially Teno 'Falanamee, divergent experiences and his rebirth in heresy and betrayal had left very physical remnants; the brand of the Heretic that was burned onto his chest could not be seen by anyone, or the lie and all the lives that likely lay upon it might very well fall upon doom in an instant.

The second shipmaster had listened to the remainder of the Arbiter's report with his features impassive, although his tensed posture showed clear interest. "A remarkable tale and one I'm sure the Council will be quite eager to hear from you in person."

He inclined his jaw in agreement. As the commanding officer during the later part of the invasion, it would fall upon him to detail the subjugation of the human world Reach, as well as the bizarre and unheralded battle that had occurred on the system's outskirts. And indeed, a journey to the capitol city of the Covenant featured prominently within his still-fermenting plans for the future of his race, if it were to have one at all.

Suspicions evidently satiated for the moment, 'Nefaaleme turned his focus to the fleet diagrams around them, and the two had begun to assess the status of the armada in earnest when the aide that had been dispatched to retrieve the tactical information the Arbiter had requested returned, offering a respectful bow to both of his superiors.

"You have the data?" the carrier's master demanded half-hazardly.

"Yes, Shipmaster," the Sangheili replied, rising. "You can now access it at your digression from the main terminal."

'Nefaaleme motioned for the attendant to return to his other duties, but he did not budge. "What else is there?"

"Excellency, the ventral guard commander has issued a report stating that his forces have located and captured a pair of…" he paused for a fraction of a second, unsure. "…humans."

'Nefaaleme fixed again up his attendant, this time with rapt attention, as did the Arbiter. "Humans? On my ship?"

"Yes, Excellency. He reported that they apparently commandeered one of our salvage craft, disabled its crew, and then attached it to a sensor-null spot on the _August Judgment's_ hull. Several of the crewers managed to escape and reported the intrusion."

"Are they still alive?"

The Arbiter's question earned him a glance from the other shipmaster, but apparently it had crossed his mind as well. "Well?"

"They are, Excellencies. There was evidently little resistance when they were discovered, and the guard commander had them taken to the primary holding deck. He said that he would have had them summarily executed, as is customary, but that the unusual circumstances of this intrusion warranted your attention before any further action was taken."

The shipmaster considered. "His prudence is noted. Nevertheless, have the commander continue with his proper duties; terminate and dispose of the mongrels. I will not have them sully this warship with their presence any longer than in necessary."

"Wait."

The Arbiter step forward, away from the holographic grid display, his focus now clearly on the attendant's message. 'Nefaaleme looked at him again, this time nearly glaring.

"Shipmaster, surely you don't intend on allowing these beings to live? It is the will of the Prophets that all of their kind be eradicated on sight."

"I have reason to believe that humans may have been involved with the vessels that assaulted and destroyed my flagship. If these humans hold any knowledge on the builders and intent of the interlopers, then I intend to tear it from them before they meet their rightful termination, in the interest of the Covenant." As he spoke, the Arbiter assumed his full, impressive height and locked feline eyes with 'Nefaaleme, causing him to fall back almost imperceptivity. "If I must answer for my decision, I will do so later, before the Council and the Hierarchs. The real authorities."

It was clear the other shipmaster still held strong misgivings on allowing his prisoners to live, but he knew enough to realize that the procedure was technically allowed within fleet law, and wise enough to know not to defy the direct order of his superior, and moreover, a warrior of this 'Falanamee's renown. Slowly, he confirmed acknowledged the countermand to his officer.

"Very well. Come, let us begin immediately. It's been a long time since I've seen one of their kind still drawing breath."


	33. Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty One

"I've got a seal," the Alliance pilot called back over his shoulder. "It's a rough fit, but it should hold atmosphere."

Acknowledging the information with a nod, Major Truul, decked out in full body armor and a reinforced blast helmet, turned to the other occupants of the shuttle's passenger cabin. "All right, you all know what to do. We breach the airlock grid, secure the holding area beyond, and wait for reinforcements. Simple, no heroics. Got it?"

Response came in the form of seven silent nods from the squad of similarly dressed Alliance troopers who were packed into the space, their hands resting tentatively on the stocks of a variety of blaster rifles and flechette casters. Though each was serving as a security marine aboard the _Republica_, and as such saw little direct combat, most were veterans of innumerable insurgent actions and sabotage campaigns, just as ready for combat as the most seasoned Imperial Stormtrooper. Nevertheless, there was obvious tension in their eyes; most barely understood just how far from home the _Republica_'s newest assignment had taken them, and the prospect of charging into this new galaxy to confront any enemy they had never even heard of before their rushed and truncated mission briefing was none too appealing. Truul knew how they felt, but he also knew they had to job to do, and he would rather face the Dark Lord of the Sith himself than fail at it. Failure still hung heavily on the man's mind.

"Are your soldiers ready, Major?" Lt. Commander Worf asked from the small ship's main hatch, voice tinged with anticipation. He, and Aleen Jossa, sole remained of the _Enterprise_'s security force, stood at the ready, both equipped with borrowed gear and armament identical to Alliance detachment's own. E-11 blaster rifle hooked to her waist, the latter was scanning the docking bulkhead beyond the shuttle's hatch with her tricorder and attempting to find the frequency with which she could simulate a docked Federation ship and trigger the sealed compartment to open.

Truul looked towards the final two members of the boarding team, conspicuous in the crowd of white and tan uniforms. The Master Chief gave a nod to the implied question and shouldered his own requisitioned weapon. "Ready."

Beside him, dressed as ever in a long, dark cloak which concealed bulky plates of armor beneath, the high templar Tassadar rose slowly, attempting to conceal his own overwhelming weariness. "I cannot feel any minds beyond that door. We had best enter before the marauders find their way to this part of the station."

Satisfied, Truul readjusted his thick helm and turned back to the waiting Klingon. "Ready when you are."

The operation had been flung together on the spur of the moment; almost immediately after the Zerg mind overseeing their attack had fallen, Tassadar had declared that somehow, an unknown number of marauders had managed to board the heart of the Bajor system's modest interplanetary network, Deep Space Nine, and were now roaming through it, mindless beast with no object other than to feed. After establishing contact with the Federation Admiral in charge of the allied fleets, and offering a hasty explanation as to whys and how's of the _Republica_'s unexpected appearance, captains Picard, Ryceed, and Gehirn had convinced Nechayev to turn her attention away from the floundering Zerg war machines and towards the distant station. Unexplained comm silence and a handful of large, ragged holes in the station's perimeter hull were all that were needed to convince her to something was amiss.

Recognizing that every act of good will on the Alliance's part would help in any future negotiations that might occur between the ambassadors and the Federation, whatever was left of it at least, and that said talks were unlikely to even be considered as long as the main base in the system was still in enemy hands, Councilor Organa had almost immediately proposed that her security attaché and a select group of Alliance soldiers assist in whatever recovery operation the admiral had in mind. Tassadar and the Master Chief had volunteered to come along, and Picard had assigned his remaining security personnel to Major Truul's group as liaisons with whatever Federation force they would rendezvous with. Twenty minutes later, they were all crammed into one of the _Republica_'s shuttlecraft, tasked with clearing a beachhead for crew from the surrounding warships.

With a dull rumble, the airlock at last accepted Jossa's tricorder code and rolled away into thick walls beyond view. Truul and his troopers poured out into the short, vacant hallway beyond a moment later in two precise rows, weapons at the ready and scanning every square centimeter of the new chamber for hostile contacts. When it was established that the room was indeed empty, the squad moved forward once again, taking positions just behind the next set of blast doors, which lead into the main disembarkation area. With a signal from Truul, Worf and Jossa moved quickly up from the entry hatch and set to work on the barrier, Tassadar and the Master Chief close behind. Another few swipes of the scanner, and the blockage again faded away, this time revealing a larger chamber, with hallways leading away to either side. The area, again completely vacant, was lit only by a single dull, flickering emergency light set in the metallic ceiling.

Quickly swiping shadowed recesses with glow lamps, Truul's team fanned out across the chamber, finally forming two groups, each one guarding an entry points into the area. Though deeply shadowed, both adjoining hallwas were also vacant as far as the eye could see. "Room is secure, Major," one of the troopers reported at last.

Nodding, Truul pulled a cylindrical comlink from a flap of his chest armor. "Pilot, the boarding area is clear. Detach to allow vessels from the fleet to disembark their own troops. Stick close though; if things fall apart in here, I want a way out, and quick."

The reply did not come immediately. "Major," the pilot said over the line at last, "I'm not picking up any other vessels converging on this location. There are a few larger ships close by, but they're just sitting there."

Puzzled, Truul glanced at Worf. "Didn't the Captain say some your friends would be joining us on this little operation?"

"Of course," the Klingon replied. "However, since the station's shielding systems were disabled when the Zerg boarded, there will be no need for any others to arrive here on shuttlecraft."

The major stared at him, clearly nonplused.

Grunting in mild annoyance, Worf slapped the combadge affixed to his broad chest. "Lt. Commander Worf to _Versailles_. Docking port two is clear. You may begin transport."

"Affirmative, insertion team."

"Transport…?"

Truul's question was answered seconds later as a low hum of ambiguous origin filled the room and several indistinct columns of bluish light appeared from the empty air that hung over an empty section of deck plate. Startled, the Alliance marines snapped their weapons into firing positions and trained them on the bizarre anomalies. Their commander also reached for his sidearm, but noticing that neither the Federation officers nor the other members of his team seemed particularly agitated, he faltered. A moment later, the shimmering had vanished, and in place each column stood a man or woman in a loose black bodysuit, each with a blocky phaser rifle or hand device in hand.

It took a moment for Truul to overcome his shock at their seemingly magical appearance, although only a moment. In his time wandering the galaxy before he had joined up with the resistance, the Corellian had seen a great many strange and impossible things, and it took a great deal to impress him. At least outwardly.

"I've never been able to understand how that is supposed to work," the Master Chief commented quietly over his internal com line, watching the arrivals from a corner, his oversized repeater rifle resting easily in gauntleted hands.

Hidden somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Cortana sighed half-hazardly. "Don't bother trying. While we were still on the _Enterprise_, I downloaded the technical specifications for their personnel transporters and I've been looking them over off and on ever since. As far as I can tell, they are designed to convert the mass of whomever steps on a transporter pad into a mass of infinitesimal particles, record their former body structure, then fling it across space using some sort of carrier wave, which puts the pieces back together at the end of the line. Of course, I can't understand _why_ it works, but it obviously does."

"Comforting."

While Truul was evidently ready to wait for an explanation as to the methods behind the sudden arrival of his reinforcements until the mission's completion, he did see it fit to voice another, more pressing question on the subject of their new comrades.

"Worf, I thought they were sending us soldiers, not…"

"They look techs just pulled off maintenance rounds," one of the Alliance troopers put in tactlessly. Truul shot him a biting look, but he couldn't really disagree. Compared to the heavy gear and armor of his own squad, the flimsy bodysuits and sparse belt clips of the Federation personnel seemed woefully insufficient.

Worf made a growling sound that might have been a sigh. "There are certain… cultural differences that I should have informed you and your men of before the beginning of this operation."

Truul raised an eyebrow. "Looks like it."

Her patience at last exhausted, one of the newly-arrived Federation personnel, a tall woman bearing a red band on the shoulders of her black jumpsuit, stepped forward to gain the attention of Truul's squad. "I am Commander Anna Slovach of the Federation Starship _Versailles_. Who is in command here?"

Sizing her up with a critical eye, Truul stepped forward as well. "That'd be me." Ignoring the fact that she was significantly taller than he was, and had him caught in a hard, humorless stare, the Alliance soldier immediately turned his attention away again, instead focusing on Slovach's unit, which consisted of eleven other men and women of various humanoid species. Some bore grim, war-weary glares similar to their commander's, although the others, invigorated by recent victory or simply by the chance to face their foes on open ground, were looking over the rebel soldiers and their towering companions with nervous curiosity. "So, this is all you've brought to clear the station?"

"Two more teams are still preparing to beam over," Slovach replied. "When the key areas of Deep Space Nine have been retaken, the admiral will send over more away teams to clear the remained of the station."

"It does not seem wise to attempt an operation like this with so few personnel," Worf ventured, stepping forward to join the two leaders.

Upon seeing him, Slovach seemed to loosen up slightly. "Lt. Commander Worf, I presume? I was told you'd be here to liaise with our new… allies." She frowned. "I'm afraid Admiral Nechayev can't spare anymore security units right now. Retaking the derelict enemy warships in the system before they destroy each other takes priority over reclaiming this station. We're just here to establish a foothold and search for survivors of the incursion, if there are any."

Truul grumbled something about getting more troops from the _Republica_, but shook his head, and at last turned his full attention to the commander. "So, what is your plan? I've been instructed to follow your orders, as long as they don't place my men at unneeded risk." He placed special emphasis, matching Slovach's hard look with his own suspicious glare. Obviously, neither was particularly comfortable placing the lives of their soldiers in the hands of the other.

As the two continued their stare-down, the Federation commander's combadge chirped. "The second wave is ready for transport, Commander."

Grudgingly breaking away from Truul's glare, the woman slapped the pendant on her chest and issued a brief acknowledgement. A moment later, an empty section of the entry chamber showed bright with the radiance of ten immaterial transport columns, these ones crimson rather than the last wave's blue. When the smolder had cleared, an equal number of broad-shouldered aliens with rough, ridged foreheads and frayed manes of black hair stood on the deck, each poised for sudden combat. Klingons.

"At least they have armor," Cortana commented quietly.

Sure that no clawed beasts were amassed to spring upon him as he appeared, the foremost Klingon holstered his angled disruptor pistol and marched forward proudly. "Slovach! I am heartened to see you again, especially on a day such as this. You must send my regards to Nechayev; her fleets fought with skill befitting of Klingon warriors!" Without waiting for a response, he turned toward Truul and his company. "And these are heroes of the day, I presume. My comrades and I were all prepared to die gloriously in battle around this world today, and herald the end of our Empire with the blood of a thousand of those vermin and their stolen ships, but I don't begrudge you for the victory. We live to fight another day!"

Catching sight of Worf, the alien's toothy grin broadened. "Ah! I should have known that there was a Klingon amongst such great warriors! I am Torgor, Son of Grawgesh, Captain of the _Vol'Racha_, and last of my great line."

"I am Worf, Son of Mogh," the security chief replied with vigor. "I am glad to see that the warriors of the Empire fight on, even in this dark time." Though he had had lived most of his life away from his own people, news that the Zerg expansion had lain waste to the Klingon Empire had struck at him deeply.

Torgor's smile faltered. "Son of Mogh? You are of Kurn's family?"

"Kurn is my brother."

"He told me that his brother was dead, vanished in the line of duty on a Starfleet vessel."

Worf nodded slowly. "It is a long story, but I am alive, and I have returned. Tell me, what has become of him."

"He was commanding the first wing of the Homeworld Defensive Squadron when Qo'nos fell. I hear that his ship was one of the last to be destroyed by the invaders, and when all of its weapons were burned away, Kurn dove straight into the heart of an enemy battleship rather than flee or be taken alive. He died gloriously, along with so many other great warriors."

Worf's normally focused and collected visage wavered. Kurn had been one of the last of his family line, and a vital connection to their long dead father. Now…

"Kurn was a skilled warrior and am unforgettable ally, Worf. I, and all who fought alongside him, will bear his memory to death and the Gates of Sto-Vo-Kor. He has brought great honor, to you, and his nephew."

Remorse suddenly replaced with a new hope, Worf stared hard into the unflinching Klingon Captain's eyes. "My son? He is still alive?"

Suddenly, from a corner of the room, Tassadar straightened and rose to his full height, causing the Klingon soldiers to reach for their weapons in alarm and their Starfleet counterparts to look on in awe at the Templar's true, impressive scale. "The Zerg have sensed our presence. We must move quickly, or be trapped here and overwhelmed."

"The Zerg?" Torgor demanded, wincing slightly at the alien's penetrating, telepathic voice.

Truul swept up the rifle he had kept cradled on his hip during the brief summit, and the rest of the Alliance team followed suit. "You know, the nasty critters we're here to kill. All right, there's time for introductions later. Let's have your plan, Slovach, and quick. I didn't come here to stand around and chat."

Barely conscious and so badly beaten that neither could even open their eyes with any degree of control, Barclay and Flitch were shoved roughly up against a smooth, cold wall and shackled in place by heavy bolts that enveloped the better part of their forearms. Blurry, but nonetheless distinctly hostile figures crowded around them, testing the restraints and violently shaking already bruised limbs to ensure that they could not be removed without outside assistance. When the tormentors were satisfied, they withdrew from the abbreviated perimeter of vision that swelled eye lids afforded, their passage capped by the flickering into existence of a pale, shimmering field that further obscured all forward sight. Dimly, Barclay realized the wall was a force field of the same sort that he had used to confine the Covenant crew of their commandeered transport.

Of course, more pressing matters quickly pushed the realization from his mind; namely, the raging torrent of pain that engulfed nearly his entire body. When the Covenant unit had at last located and stormed the human's hiding place, Barclay had been too overwhelmed by the sight of a fully armored and mobile Sangheili warrior bearing down upon him to resist capture, and Flitch, still bound, had not been in any state to fight back. Now, however, a part of Barclay's mind was screaming at him through the pain, the familiar voice of shame and could-have-been's. If he had had the will to fight back, at all, perhaps the alien soldiers would have just killed him outright, quickly and painlessly; as it was, their captors had not taken great care to ensure the comfort of their charges, and even the slightest shove from a titan of Sangheili stature, or a slap from one of the wiry, bird-like Kig-Yar, caused tender human flesh to abrade and distend quite painfully.

No. Though the pain was great, greater indeed than any he could remember ever experiencing, he would not give in. Not yet. This place, this alien ship, so far from the galaxy he had been born in and the people he knew, would not become his grave. He just had to have faith; things always seemed to work out somehow, no matter how badly he managed to aggravate the situation in the process.

Barclay's unwilling companion didn't seem to be taking their circumstances quite as well. Locking onto the sound of his haggard breathing and heaving his mind from the throbbing mire that had nearly consumed it, Barclay attempted to turn towards the other human, and promptly suspended the effort, a welt on his neck sending a jolt up and down his spine. Gritting his teeth, at least one of which was missing, the prisoner ventured another avenue of communication.

"Are you…?" The short syllables were quickly followed by a series of sharp gasps; even speaking required surprising effort.

In response, Flitch spat onto the polished floor, a significant amount of blood suspended in his phlegm.

Unsure what the wordless retort implied, Barclay slowed his breathing and attempted to form words once more, but before he could speak, Flitch's body jerked violently, and the infiltrator wrenched his head up. "Blast you, damned fool! Can't you keep silent?"

The engineer swallowed his weak attempt at communication and shrank back into the shell of solitary anguish the Covenant soldiers had so graciously provided. Comfort from adversity certainly could be found in sharing the burden with another, but Flitch again seemed to flat out refuse the potential benefits of anything that smacked of alliance with his former captive, any shred of pragmatism engulfed by self-centered anguish, or regret. Perhaps the ultimate failure of his mission had hurt the Imperial far more personally than any beating ever could.

Neither had an opportunity to reflect too deeply on their personal laminations, however. After a brief, silent period which could not have persisted for more than ten minutes, though it seemed an eternity longer to Barclay, both men perceived noise and movement from beyond the shimmering barrier, now more distinct and vibrant. A moment later, the field vanished, leaving two figures in its place, backlit and impossible to discern clearly.

"How pitiful they are," one of them growled. "It is easy to see why the Gods hold theses humans in such contempt. Weak, primitive, purposeless creatures."

He turned to the other. "I assume you can speak their tongue?"

It shrugged, causing angular head and long neck to bob slightly; a Sangheili nod.

"I loathe the sound of it; animalistic, as they are. Even the squeals of the Unggoy at least bear the traces of enlightenment." The speaker seemed to shudder. "Nevertheless, it is the edict of the Prophets that their chief servants know the language of the enemy. Their infinite wisdom reveals itself once more."

The other remained silent.

With a single long stride, the first of the figures brought itself into full view, a towering mass of gray sinew encased in a shell of polished, angled gold. It's tiny, feline eyes, almost invisible under the yoke of its large skullcap, stared down on the human prisoners with unrestrained malice, and it's each breath, emanating from an exposed maw flanked by toothy jaws, blasted them with hot air and the lingering stench of concentrated sweat.

"Human!" it bellowed, grabbing Flitch's tattered tunic with a four-fingered hand and jerking him forward on his restraints. "Where did your kind get those vile warships from? What sacred relic did they desecrate and plunder?"

Flitch glared at the interrogator and grimaced as he was wrenched up against his bonds, but said nothing.

After waiting only a moment for a response, the Sangheili growled again and slammed Flitch back against the bulkhead, then turned his attention to Barclay. "Answer me! Those vessels were well beyond the scope of your primitive designs. _Tell me where you stole them from!_"

Slowly-clearing vision engulfed by the alien warrior's snarling visage, Barclay tried to gulp away the bile of fear and injury rising in his throat, but the obstruction remained. Weakly, he mouthed something, but no sound emerged; even if the man was in a state to reply coherently, he would not have known what to say. Self preservation, duty, blind fear, and simple of ignorance of the situation he had been cast muddled his thoughts hopelessly.

Recognizing that this human was equally unwilling or unable to cooperate, the Sangheili contracted its jaws together in anger and, with a lightening motion, brought the backside of one hand across the man's jaw. Though the assault was relatively restrained, a backhand to the face from a being capable of pulverizing bone with a single squeeze was nevertheless quite overwhelming. Barclay's world exploded into a coruscating rainbow of impossible colors and virtually unbearable anguish. However, as a testament to the warrior's experience as a tormentor, he remained unmercifully conscious.

Increasingly irritated with his victims, the Sangheili stepped back. "Pitiful, but hardly unexpected," he said, flexing broad shoulders pensively. "I have dealt with humans of this sort before; though their flesh is weak and their bodies frail, they do seem to possess a surprising ability to keep secrets to themselves… for a time, at least. Their minds fair far worse under more focused assault."

He turned once more to the silent companion. "Is there any other need you have for these creatures now? I can ensure that they survive a more proper interrogation; though the electrodes the processors use are typically fatal to their kind, I'm sure they can be modified temporarily. I apologize for the necessary delay, but I assure you, when we question them again, extracting the information you seek will be all too easy. I've seen it all before; no human manages to summon the dignity of a warrior in the face of death. They will speak, if only to end their own suffering with the death that so justly awaits them."

"No."

The sudden reply caught the interrogator off guard, as made obvious by the contraction of his eyes into piercing slits. The word captured the attention of the humans as well, although neither could identify exactly why. Though the accented, alien voice was very much like that of the first to their ears, there was nonetheless something distinct about it, something familiar.

"What?"

The other Sangheili, dressed in the same armor as his comrade, stepped closer to the prisoners, as if to inspect them better. "No. These creatures are too valuable and fragile to risk in such an interrogation. We cannot allow the information they hold to be lost through overeager examination. When I travel to _High Charity_ to address the Hierarchs, I shall take them with me. The facilities there are better designed for delicate extraction."

The first stared at him, no doubt furious. To challenge the competency of any component of a warrior's command was to insult that warrior himself. "Ship master, my warriors have a great deal of experience with humans, and just how little it takes to kill them. I assure you, they're skills are more than adequate. Certainly, you do not wish to befoul the blessed air of our holy capitol with their stench unnecessarily?"

The second glared back, unflinching. "This is my judgment. You will not defy it."

Provoked by the abrupt dismissal, the interrogator balled his massive hands into fists and stepped closer to the commander, clearly seething with self-righteous anger. "I will not be cowed this way, not on my own warship! I may have graciously taken you aboard, honored your exemplary record, and given you a place at my side, but you have no real authority over me now, and no right to countermand my orders so! These humans live now because I chose to entertain your request to maintain them, and for no other reason!"

Casting off the air of quiet interest he had borne before, the other rose to his full, impressive stature, amplified all the more by his ostentatious garb. "Do not think just because my command has been lost in battle that I lack teeth, or the will to use them, 'Nefaaleme. My station may need reaffirmation and divine sanction, but my judgment still holds sway with the High Council, and I know that they will agree with me on this matter. Challenge me on this there, if you think it in the best interest of the Covenant, but do not stand against me here and now."

Normally, such an ultimatum, especially intoned as darkly as the speaker had managed, would have given even a ship master pause, but 'Nefaaleme did not seem diffused at all; indeed, the retort seemed to have increased his rage further. There was more to his temper than mere indignation at a perceived subversion of his authority, as serious as the infraction was.

"But this is not the thinking of a warrior! By all that is holy, these vermin should already be dead! How do you know that they even possess anything of value, or that that value outweighs the shame I must bear for each moment they remain alive upon my vessel? I had heard that you had become a warrior of great decisiveness and valor since our training together, but I fear now that there is still some weakness within your heart. I do not see how the Prophets could have missed it! They could not have; perhaps you lost your nerve when you saw your flagship in flames, and your thinking is still clouded by that lapse. Indeed, perhaps that is how you yet live. How you survived such a failure had puzzled me, but now I think I may know. Tell me, 'Falanamee, did you abandon the fight before the battle was truly done? Does your cowardice still haunt your thoughts?"

The sword hilt at Falanamee's side ignited and slicing through the air before 'Nefaaleme's last word had even escaped his exposed maw, but the other ship master was expecting the assault, and deftly unhooked his own weapon to counter the blow. He had know that impugning a Sangheili warrior's courage could be met only with an act of physical retribution, a duel to maintain the honor of the attacker, and yet he had persisted anyways. Truly, his unease with 'Falanamee ran deep.

Impacting one another, the two triangles of blue energy discharged a nova of heat and convulsing plasma, a beacon that cut through the haze that still clouded the eyesight of the prisoners. They could now see the chamber beyond their cell; a long, high rectangle flanked by numerous other imprisoning alcoves, each vacant. At one end of the room, opposite a raise computer control terminal, two tall warriors flanked the only exit, each transfixed by the confrontation before them. Neither one moved to interfere, however; honor duels were an indelible and crucial part of Sangheili society, and in any event, both combatants were among the elite of their race. To stand between them was to invite the removal of any number of body parts.

The two blades did not remain locked for long. Quickly determining that he could not withstand his larger opponent with strength alone, 'Nefaaleme disengaged and ducked to 'Falanamee's left, swapping his hilt from hand to hand and angling it up to strike under the warrior's extended arms. Sensing the threat, the other warrior spun to the left, leaving 'Nefaaleme to stubble to a halt and pivot himself back towards the threat on open ground. However, the ship master had no time to attempt another feign; 'Falanamee was on top of him, blade swooping to decapitate its prey.

A swift duck left the plasma sword swinging through empty space, but 'Nefaaleme could not escape the powerful kick that the blow had distracted from. Golden armor clanging against golden armor, he fell back, smacking into smooth bulkhead with a loud grunt. His opponent off-balance, 'Falanamee pushed forward once more, this time angling his raised weapon down for a slash across the chest. Seeing the flash of the blade, 'Nefaaleme wrenched his own weapon upward with a wrenching motion, trusting that the deadly field would stop the impending strike. It did, but only barely; though they were nearly as tough as temper metal, the bones in the ship master's blade hand began to creak under the strain of the blow.

Knowing he could not remain on the defensive for long, 'Nefaaleme lurched forward, focusing all his strength into his huge, muscular legs. Though 'Falanamee was more brawny than his opponent, the difference was not great, and he knew that his stance had become untenable. Kneeling slightly first to help deflect the force of the other warrior's lunge, he jump backward, but this time, 'Nefaaleme was faster. With his free hand, he latched onto the other Sangheili's thigh plate and pulled himself forward, using his enemy's own mass as an anchor for another attack with his sword, this time aimed at 'Falanamee's exposed legs.

Breaking free of the other's grasp, 'Falanamee jerked away to the side, nearly falling to the deck plate in an attempt to avoid the blow. He was nearly successful; the quick evasion had preserved his legs, but a small section of armor and bodysuit was gone, replaced by a frayed and smoking gash that revealed dark skin beneath. Growling in frustration, the warrior ignored the near-miss, lunging forward again, this time with his weapon pointed straight at 'Nefaaleme's center mass.

Swapping his sword back into his right hand with lightening speed, the other ship master met the attack expertly, deflecting the attack with a swift parry. Hissing, 'Falanamee's blade gashed the deck viciously, but its owner brought it up again immediately, orienting it to block 'Nefaaleme's counterattack. As he diffused the force of the blow, the Sangheili caught sight of another threat on the periphery of his vision. Twisting away from his opponent's blade, he jerked his burning scythe to the left and up in a single, fluid motion.

'Nefaaleme desperately swung his left arm out of its original course, intended to deliver a hammer blow to the side of 'Falanamee's skull, and managed to escape losing the limb, but the maneuver had once again thrown his off-balance. Recognizing the opening, 'Falanamee launched himself forward, smacking headlong into his opponent and driving him back against the cell block wall. With his free arm, he pinned 'Nefaaleme's weapon hand to the hard surface and then pushed. The other let out a cry of pain and rage, and pushed back with his whole body, but 'Falanamee's superior strength and footing overwhelmed the offensive force. Realizing that the effort was in vain, the ship master switched tactics, trying instead to slide to the side and escape the other's press that way. Feeling his prey begin to slip away, 'Falanamee compressed his jaws tightly and slammed his angular head into the side of 'Nefaaleme's outstretched neck. Gasping, the latter both was forced to halt his evasive struggle and released the hilt still clutched in his battered fist, sending it clattering uselessly to the deck below. A smash with an armored forearm sent the rest of him to the ground.

'Falanamee drew back, breathing heavily but otherwise un injured, and glared down at his opponent as he struggled to shove his back up against the smooth bulkhead. Bringing the twin, flaming tips of his blade within centimeters of 'Nefaaleme's neck, 'Falanamee kicked the ship master's deactivated weapon away from his limp grasp.

Broad chest heaving, the defeated warrior weakly raised his head and glowered at the victor defiantly. "Run me through, then," he managed. "It is our way."

The muscles in 'Falanamee's sword arm tensed and it drew back marginally, but nevertheless the soldier hesitated, staring back at the rebellious officer. As they exchanged deathly, battle-tinted looks, the prison chamber's heavy door dilated into the surrounding walls and a lightly armored intendant stepped inwards. The Sangheili immediately froze, caught off guard by the scene before him, but said nothing, noting that the flanking guards were not interfering.

"Report," 'Falanamee commanded, without breaking his gaze with the defeated combatant.

Shaking off his bewilderment, the intendant straightened his shoulders decorously. "Excellency, the overbridge reports that the unidentified interlopers that destroyed the _Ascendant Justice_ have returned, in great numbers. The group commanders are awaiting Ship Master 'Nefaaleme's orders."

'Falanamee did not acknowledge the information, but he did, after a moment's thought, step back from the prone warrior lying before him and lower his weapon. "You are correct, 'Nefaaleme, it is my right to slay you for your insolence and your failure. However, unlike you, I will not allow my own desires to interfere with what is best for the Covenant and its warriors. We shall return to the command chamber, and you shall lead your soldiers, whether you are worthy of the honor or not. Only when the intruders are vanquished will we resolve this, not before."

'Nefaaleme began to snarl, but, thinking better of it, decided instead to heave himself onto sore feet, and lope slowly towards the open doorway. 'Falanamee moved to follow him, but not before sparing one last glance towards the captives, who yet looked on in confusion. His vision mostly recovered now, Barclay's eyes caught sight of something beneath the rim of the warrior's skull cap, a scar, bold and fresh, etched across the side of his visage. He gasped, hit by a sudden realization, and the greater confusion it entailed.

"Remove the humans from those bonds and keep them confined in that cell. I shall return for them." The guards acknowledged the command with a salute, and the Arbiter was gone.


	34. Chapter Fifty Two

Chapter Fifty Two

With a guttural grunt, the creature bent its stocky rear legs and leapt, scrabbled for purchase on the smooth, polished with vicious claws, and began to pace slowly along the narrow walkway it made. Swinging its toothy head from side to side, the beast scoured the recycled air for scent of prey, every sinewy tendon in the predator's body tightening each time a new smell crossed its path. A meter below, still confined to the hard deck plate, two of its kin followed along, the chitinous plates on their backs creaking with each step. Like the canine beings their breed had been spawned from so long ago, each bore the gaunt frame and highly tuned sense of a pack hunter, and as the leader above followed an errant strand of sensation one way or the other, those below turned their skull-like visage in syncopation, slavering at the possibility of a new kill.

Spying an object that its primitive brain could not readily identify, the lead creature perked up. It hefted its meter-long frame onto its back legs again, and probed at the thing with a stubby, clawed foreleg. The small, shiny item did not attempt to flee or attack as the predator approached. The lack of response would have normally caused the beast to disregard it and move on, but there was an odd aura about it, some faint odor that impelled it move closer.

Then, as it shoved its spiky snout right up to the object, a blurry image appeared on the curiosity's surface; a toothy face, staring back menacingly. Startled, the beast drew back with a high-pitched yelp and smacked the offending image with the heel of its outstretched claws. The object gave way immediately, tipping over the side of the raised platform and falling to the deck below, where it shattered into dozen of reflective pieces and unleashed a small wave of dark, acrid liquid. Surprised by the ease of its victory, but again attracted by the aroma the kill had produced, the hunter leapt down after it, the pair of followers in tow.

"Tellarite ale," the late bottle's owner whispered mournfully as he watched the trio of creatures sticking their snouts into the sticky puddle that was beginning to seep into the grooves between the deck plates. "You can't get it anywhere anymore. Nineteen bars of gold-pressed Latinum when I bought it, and worth ever slip, too. Its Probably worth twice that now."

From a shadowy alcove behind the low staircase under which the reminiscing bartender was now sheltered, a pair of arms appeared and clamped onto him. Finding purchase over his mouth and around his chest, they jerked back, dragging the little man further into the ink blackness, away from the dim lights of the bar and the marauding predators within. Responding badly, as was his custom, he began to flail about in the dark and even considered biting own on the hand that now covered his set of yellowed, beetle teeth, before the movement ceased.

"Calm down, Quark!" a female voice hissed from somewhere behind him. "And keep quiet!" she added as an afterthought.

Although his heart still raced, the diminutive Ferengi stopped moving, and as he did so, the hands restraining him relaxed.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Quark twisted around in the narrow alcove he had been dragged into and attempted to make out his new companion, to little avail. However, where his eyes failed him, the sensitive, fan-like ears that adorned his bald, orange head did not. "Dax? Ezri, is that you?"

"Who else would I be?" she replied, an unusual bite in her tone. Deep Space Nine's counselor and science officer, she was typically easy-going, but in stressful situations, the Trill swiftly adopted an abrupt and even nervous personality. "Why are you even still here? I thought all the civilians on the station had been evacuated."

Quark adopted a disarming, pointy grin, a course of habit that was not dissuaded by the darkness that enveloped them both. "Oh, were they? I must have missed the announcement." He could tell that Ezri was not convinced. "Uh… listen, I've owned this bar through a Cardassian occupation, three invasions, more bizarre phenomena and malfunctions than I can count, and a plague of tribbles. I wouldn't be worth the Latinum I intend to sell my remains for if I abandoned it to a few bugs. I don't intend to give Odo the satisfaction of being right about the spineless cowardice he always oh so loudly, and fallaciously I might add, attributed to me." The Ferengi gulped, surprised at his own words. "Um, I would appreciate it if you didn't spread that last part around. Being perceived as a spineless coward is good for business."

"My lips are sealed," Ezri replied quietly, her mood softened somewhat by Quark's banter.

Settling against one of the alcove's slanted walls, Quark crossed his arms pensively. "Although, I didn't really count on the bugs managing to make it onto the station, at least not yet. What happened?"

"As we were evacuating the last of the transports, a few enemy ships broke through the defensive fleet's line and made a suicide run on the station. The shuttle was recalled to safety under our shield, and the Commander managed to destroy the attacking ships, but apparently there were some sort of pods onboard that burst out when their carriers exploded. A few managed to make it through the shield while the shuttle was in transit, and latched onto the hull. Those 'bugs' were inside. I was with a detachment sent to secure the transport when it docked again, but we were attacked before we reached the docking ring. A few of us managed to escape into maintenance conduits, but the creatures were already breaching those too. I managed to lose the ones that were tailing me, but I've been unable to established contact with Ops."

"They must have knocked out all of the internal communications somehow," Quark speculated. "I overheard the security team that was down here saying that their communicators had stopped working just before they were overrun by those things."

"What happened to them?" Ezri asked earnestly. "Did you see Julian with them?" Doctor Bashir, whose office was on the other side of the station's central promenade from Quark's bar, disliked leaving his medical facilities when battle promised an influx of patients.

"Yeah, he was there. The security officers held off the first wave of those things, and the Doctor was helping one of the wounded to the sickbay when more of them attacked, bigger ones that slithered down from the upper level. A lot of the officers were cut down pretty quickly, but I think a few made it back to the medbay with Bashir. They're probably still holed up there, although I'm not sure of that. I only managed to hide back here before those things began overturning my establishment, looking for more victims.

Ezri frowned. "I had heard that their sense of smell is very acute. Why haven't they noticed you? Or me for that matter?"

Quark grinned once again. "Most of the people who have lived on the station for a long time seem to get used to it, but to newcomers, the aroma of my establishment and its wares can be somewhat… distracting. How else do you think I make such a profit at the gambling tables? Few are lucky while properly intoxicated."

"I always thought you just rigged the games."

The Ferengi straightened his back in indignation. "Such an accusation! I'll have you know that…"

Before Quark could complete his defense, however, he found Ezri's hand once more over his mouth.

"Quiet!" she hissed fervently, now a visible silhouette in the darkness.

Complying without comment, Quark's sensitive ears immediately picked up what the Federation officer must have heard. Claws. The scrabbling echo of serrated chitin and bone on metal, echoing from the deeper darkness from which Ezri must have emerged. The reverberation sounded as though it was coming across a great distance, but in the complex maintenance crawlspaces that crisscrossed the space station, such perceptions could be deceptive.

As the hidden pair listened, the sound began to fade, then abruptly grew stronger again, then ceased entirely. Placing the expansive lobs of one ear against a bulkhead, Quark scanned intently for any inkling of the sound. After more than a minute of utter silence, he withdrew and turned back to Ezri, an uneasy grin barely visible in the dark. "False alarm."

Immediately, the sound returned, now far louder and more distinct than before, and clearly emanating from somewhere beyond the Trill officer. Not bothering to even shoot the Ferengi and enraged glare, Ezri Dax drew a hand phaser from her hip and pivoted to face the hidden access way. "Do you have a phaser?"

Nervously, Quark patted his vest, checking each of its secret pockets and purse loops in quick succession.

"I wondered where that pouch had gone…"

"Quark!"

He gulped, and continued his search, at last laying a hand on a smooth handle, buried in a padded underarm sleeve. "Ah yes, I knew I still had this on me. Uh, perhaps it's best if you didn't mention this to the commander. Strictly speaking, hold-out disruptors aren't legal under Bajoran law."

"I'll take it under advisement," Ezri replied through gritted teeth. As she spoke, the clattered of spike swelled and became even more discordant. "There's more than one."

Quark couldn't disagree.

Glancing from the darkness before her, to the dim light of the bar, to her companion, and back, Ezri rose from her crouched position, and began to back towards the light. "We've got to get out of here. I don't think we can hold more than one of those things in here."

"Are you crazy?" Quark gaped, but backed away alongside her nonetheless. "There are more of them out in the open! If we leave this alcove, we'll be cut into pieces before we reach the Dabo tables!"

She glanced at the man, fear evident in her own eyes. "It's either that or die in here, right now. We don't have many options."

Above the clatter of hurried footfalls, a ravenous hissing sound filled the air like a miasma. Even though the blackness of the small access tunnel, an inkling of rapid movement began to emerge, a hurtling specter of knives and slavering jaws.

Biting a yellowing nail pensively, Quark at last pushed himself to his feet. "The access hatch should be right by the exit. I'm not sure if it'll hold them, though."

"It's better than nothing. Come on."

Squeezing out of the angular tube and into the sheltered area below the bar staircase, the two worked quickly, hefting the metallic hatch Quark had removed when first attempting to hide, and affixing it to the small portal. The thing was sturdy enough, but the Trill and the Ferengi had both heard enough of their hunters to know that it would not be enough. Escape was their only chance. And to do that, they would have to face the same threat they had just waylaid, if ever so briefly.

"Uh, Quark? Not that I'm complaining, but I thought you said that there were more of them out here?"

Making sure that the self-sealing bolts on the obstruction were as tight as they were going to get, the barkeeper turned with his disruptor drawn, ready to point out the foes Ezri has somehow missed, but to his surprise, the bar seemed to be empty. There was the ruined remains of that expensive flask of ale, and another row of shattered bottles the creatures had evidently also seen fit to inspect, but, at least from their hidden vantage point, the perpetrators were no where to be seen.

"I don't like this," Ezri whispered, phaser clutched tightly in one fist.

Quark had similar misgivings, but he knew better than to pass up an opportunity such as this over a vague feeling. After all, that was one of the sacrosanct Ferengi Rules of Acquisition: Never let intuition interfere when profit is staring you right in the face. Or was it the other way around? It didn't really matter; they were probably both in there somewhere.

"As you said, we don't have many options right now, and if you don't mind, I'd prefer the one whose teeth are not immediately apparent." Hearing no descent from the counselor, he glance up, between the narrow slots of the stairway. "We should make for the second level. There's a hidden panel in the rear wall of holo-suite two that connects with an unused maintenance conduit. We might be able to make it to one of the escape pods that way."

Ezri raised an eyebrow.

"What? I like to approach my line of work well prepared, and my clientele isn't always of the most diplomatic breed," Quark said dismissively, rising to his feet. "Now, if you don't have any objections…"

A muffled scratching from the other side of the access hatch ensured that she didn't.

Weapons at the ready, the two slowly emerged from the stairway's shadow, and worked their way around to its mouth as quietly as they could, scanning every visible centimeter of the establishment for a potential threat. Reaching the front of the stair without incident, and spying no movement on the open deck above, they ascended with all due haste, unconsciously vying to be the first off the compromised level as they ran. Quark managed to come out first, but as he flew up the last handful of bare steps and came within sight of the upper floor, the Ferengi suddenly wished had been slightly slower.

With a sharp inhalation of breath, he tumbled backwards down the stairs, falling a meter before impacting Ezri, a collision that nearly sent both tumbling to the floor below. Steadying herself and pushing Quark back firmly onto a metal step, the Federation officer started to demand why he had fallen back, but her question died before the syllable even formed in her throat. On the deck plate above, fully blocking the stairway's exit, lay the gaping maw of one of the creatures that had been prowling through bar a few minutes previous. Raising her weapon instinctively, Ezri almost squeezed off a shot, but something about the vacant look in the vacant, beady eyes that framed the beast's toothy sneer of a mouth gave her pause. They were _too_ vacant. The thing was dead.

"What are you…?" Quark managed squeakily, but the Trill pushed past him, mounting the last few steps so as to get a better view of the beast. It was one of the smaller hunters, as most of the boarders had been, lacking the armor and bulk that some of its cousins bore, but nonetheless highly dangerous. They were weak, usually felled by a few phaser blasts, but the things also had claws sharper than the best Klingon Bat'leth, and where one was, a hundred more were likely close behind. Ezri had only encountered them in person once before, in the ambush only an hour previous, but that, and the stories that had filtered to the station each time a Federation world fell, were more than enough to convince her of the danger that they posed. And these were among the lowliest of minions the unknown enemy wielded.

"Well, it's dead all right." Seeing that his companion had not been torn into shreds when she pushed past him, Quark had at last summoned the courage to follow. "That's a pretty impressive wound." He referred to the blackened and gory hole that dominated most of the dead creature's upturned flank. "Most weapons that powerful would have just disintegrated the thing. I wonder what killed it."

"Quark!"

Startled by Ezri's sudden shout, the Ferengi spun away from the corpse, and came face to face with a massive figure, emerging from an archway that opened onto the central Promenade's upper level. It was a mass of drab green and black, marred by an occasional patch of charring or a splotch of yellowy gore. In its hands was clutched a huge, angular weapon that smelled of burning ozone. The creature's head was masked by an opaque faceplate, which cast a reflection of Quark's orange face back at him, distorting and shadowing it.

Seized by an urgent fear, the Ferengi fell on his back, nearly tumbling again down the staircase, and brought his tiny disruptor to bear on the sudden target. A gnarled finger depressed the trigger.

The weapon whirred, coughed, sputtered, and died, the glowing power cell visible in its grip dulling noticeably. Quark only had a moment to gape in horror at the malfunctioning article and breathe a short curse on the Tzenkenthi merchant he had purchased it from before the intruder loped across the room, deftly removed the weapon from his outstretched hand, and kneeled across his chest, effectively immobilizing the man. In the same motion, the armored humanoid brought its sizeable weapon to its waist and trained it on Ezri's chest, a mere meter away.

"Drop it," it demanded clearly, in a deep, masculine voice. Now looking down the barrel of the attacker's weapon, Ezri had no choice but to comply. Her hand phaser clattered uselessly to the deck.

"Wait!" From the Promenade, a pair of Klingons and a human woman appeared, with them a handful of other Klingon warriors and oddly-unformed soldiers visible at the archway, their weapons drawn. One, dressed in an off-white combat suit moved to intercept the towering mass of armor. "They're Starfleet officers… at least, she is." Catching sight of Quark, still reeling and pinned to the deck, the Klingon frowned in distaste.

"Ferengi," the other warrior spat. "What are you still doing here?"

"Suffocating, at the moment," Quark replied, trying to push away the knee that still lay on his chest to no avail. "Now, would you mind ordering this beast off of me?"

"He's with me," Ezri put in as calmly as she could manage.

Slowly, the armored humanoid rose, shouldering his firearm and allowing the Ferengi space to pick himself up. "I wouldn't recommend trying to pull a gun on my again, and if you do, at least try to find one that works."

As Quark muttered something unintelligible under his breath, the woman approached Ezri. "Sorry about this. We're part of the team Admiral Nechayev dispatched to secure the station and rescue any survivors. I'm Aleen Jossa, they're Lt. Commander Worf and Captain Torgor. And the big one's called the Master Chief. I don't think he's ever told anyone his real name, if he even has one."

Ezri nodded, gratefully accepting her fallen sidearm. "I'm Lieutenant Ezri Dax. "I was separated from a security team when the station was boarded, and I've been trying to evade them in the maintenance conduits ever since. I ran into Quark, the owner of this establishment, hiding on the lower floor, and we were making for a potential escape route when you ran into us."

Gaze attracted by movement in the hall beyond, Ezri watched as armored soldiers materialized and began to file onto Quark's balcony level. "I recognize the Klingons, but I've never seen any Starfleet combat uniforms like that. And I haven't seen armor like his since Military History in the Academy." She gestured to the Master Chief, who, along with the lead Klingons, was listening to a report from one of Torgor's subordinates. "New reinforcements?"

Jossa smiled faintly. "In a manner of speaking. It's a very long story, but I'll be very glad to fill you in when we get out of here. I'm just glad to see a familiar face; there aren't very many Trill where we've been."

Ezri was puzzled by the comment, but didn't have time to question the woman any further, as the others had just completed their short briefing.

"The upper level of this section is secure for the moment," Worf said, approaching Ezri once more. "Are there any other survivors you know of nearby?"

She nodded. "Yes. Quark thinks a few personnel managed to get to Sickbay, on the lower level of the Promenade. If they did, they should still be barricaded inside."

Worf shot a suspicious glance in the Ferengi's direction, but apparently accepted the information, and turned to the rest of his squad. "Let's move then. We should have the Engineering section secured before Major Truul and Commander Slovach reach Ops. Medbay should be on the way to the core access block."

"I'll take point," the Master Chief offered, moving towards the stairs back down to the main deck. "Tabren, Obra, Decid. You're with me."

The trio of helmeted soldiers, presumably humans, moved to follow him, checking their weapons as they went.

"Come, my brothers!" Torgor roared with sudden exuberance. "Let us follow them into the depths, and trade the blood of our people for the ichor of the beasts!"

As Worf moved to join the rest of his squad as they pounded down the narrow metal access way, Ezri stopped him.

"What is it?"

"I'm sorry, but have we met somewhere before?" she replied, almost timidly.

"Not that I can recall. Why, do you remember me?"

Ezri frowned. "No, not really. It's just that… you seem familiar somehow."

The two stared at one another for a long moment, alone together on the cold deck plate. Worf's mouth tightened. _There is something… her face…_

Ezri felt her eyes suddenly begin to water, but she did not know why. _It is as if I've heard his voice, simply felt his presence before. But how…_

A Klingon bellow echoed up from below, a war cry. "Their warriors have come at last!" A jarring hiss and several fleshy pops followed, almost immediately drowned out by the chorus of a dozen different energy weapons firing in concert.

The moment cut short, the lonely pair reluctantly broke their gaze and piled off down the stairs, into the heart of battle.

"Still no contacts, Major," a voice crackled over Truul Besteen's comlink. "There haven't been any signs of movement since your teams left."

"Keep your guard up. We've run into two groups of the things already, and they seem ta drop in out of nowhere. Most of 'em aren't too dangerous at a distance, but Commander Slovach already almost lost a man who let one of the little ones get too close. And tell the Starfleet man with you to not bother much with his tricorder. Something's making ours give bad readings on them."

The soldier on the other end of the line, one of two left to guard the shuttle's docking hatch, gave his acknowledgement, and Truul signed off. "Still no sign of 'em on the docking ring," the major reported turning back to the rest of his team, camping for the moment in a sizeable hall intersection. "He all right?"

The officer nodded at the blue-skinned Andorian who was seated at the center of the group, cradling his left arm as another Starfleet officer placed a temporary seal on the large gash that still bled onto his black uniform. Checking with the attending officer, Commander Slovach nodded. "Crewman Shenar is ready to move out again. We should continue on to Ops before those… Zerg attack again."

Truul nodded. "I'm with ya. Still, I don't like moving through corridors like these with so many men, especially considering how good these things seem to be at jumping out of no where and picking us off."

Under Slovach's orders, the insertion team had been split into three, one to secure the Engineering section and try and restore power, one to reestablish contact with one of the station's evacuation shuttles that was still docked and unresponsive to hails, and the last to make their way to Ops and retake systems that might aide in expelling any remaining boarders. Each was to pick up any survivors they found along the way and tag them for transport out. When the vital systems had been secured, the nearby fleet would begin to beam in all the armed officers they could spare to neutralize the Zerg intruders. It was a sound plan, but had been hampered by two unanticipated factors.

Firstly, the boarders had somehow managed to knock out power to most of the primary systems and even some of the core ones, among them lighting, which rendered ambient illumination an uncertain factor, varying from compartment to compartment and deck to deck. The tampering had also disrupted station-based communications and shutdown most of Deep Space Nine's lifts. One of Slovach officers, familiar with the station's layout, had suggested that they attempt to reach Ops, difficult to reach without functioning turbolifts, via the power and repair conduits that ran throughout the construct. However, prying off a maintenance hatch had given them their first encounter with the Zerg. There were only three; smallish, canine creatures, and they were easily eliminated, but the attack made it clear that they had already made their way into the tunnel network. That, combined with the fact that none of the lighting in the things seemed to be functional (the creatures seemed to have gone to great pains to smash every independently-powered fixture they came across), and their restrictive size, had invalidated the idea, and made locating a functioning lift, or one that could be jury-rigged to function, a priority.

The second impediment had been the almost total lack of life they encountered. Rather than a battlefield, as Slovach had expected, with the station's crew holding the intruders back from critical systems and mounting their own counterattacks, they had found nothing, not even bodies, beyond the occasional trail of blood into a darkened compartment, and the attackers themselves. Certainly, most of the station had been evacuated during the battle, but there should still be more than one hundred Starfleet and Bajoran Militia onboard. The squad's tricorders detected life in abundance throughout the station, but something of indeterminate origin was interfering with their accuracy, rending them unable to pinpoint life signs, or tell if what they picked up was humanoid or Zerg.

"Still, it strikes me as kinda odd that they only hit us twice so far," Truul continued, hefting his rifle towards the long hallway down which another group had attacked out of a seemingly vacant living compartment, wounding the Starfleet crewman. We're not exactly being stealthy, and if they really wanted, I bet these things could make us work for our creds." The mannerism was lost on everyone save the Alliance marine Truul had assigned to the group, but his meaning was obvious.

"Their minds no longer possess the capacity for thought," the imposing Tassadar rumbled, rising from a corner of the formation and pulling his dark cloak about him tighter. "Without their master, they are mere animals, incapable of strategy or coordination. They gather in small packs and act on their basest impulses without reservation. Kill, destroy, desecrate. Slaughter consumes their minds." He paused, casting his hypnotic eyes to the ceiling pensively. "Nevertheless, there is something odd about the behavior of the creatures here. I have seen no evidence that any have turned on their own to feed their thirst for carnage, as they invariably without a will to drive them. More than that, I do not sense the primal confusion and terror that their abandonment should have set free. These Zerg lack coordination, and yet, there is something… focused about them."

"We must be cautious. Something has altered this brood, and I know not what it is."

Pulling back together in a tight formation, the squad continued on through the eerie, empty passageways, continuing their search. Following a station schematic in one of Slovach's tricorders, they had nearly circumnavigated the central disk, checking each potential turbolift without success. It was a time-consuming process, but both Commander and Major agreed that it was the only safe course of action; the access conduits were paths of last resort only.

After a few more nervous minutes of silent navigation through endless dark corridors, they came upon one of the last unchecked lift banks, this one not far from the station's central Promenade. A pair of Starfleet technicians popped the interface for one of the chambers open and began rooting through the mess of wire within, searching for active wires and enacted terminal jacks. After only a few moments of rewiring and a sweep with a device Truul did not recognize, the lights in their section of the hallway intensified to their maximum luminosity, and a nearby wall terminal flickered on, displaying a variety of polite supplications in numerous scripts, each indicating that it was offline.

"The power distribution node in this module still seems to still have access to a small amount of reserve power," one of the technicians reported confidently. "If we can override the emergency lockout on this turbolift and recall one of its cabs from the Operations level, you should be able to get a few trips out of it."

"Good work," Slovach replied. "Do you have access to any other systems?"

Stepping aside to allow his comrade to continue their repairs, the tech shook his head. "No, sir. I have power here now, but without the main computer, everything has to be done manually, which pretty much limits us to this lift. I can't even be sure what triggered the lockdown."

The commander frowned. "Wouldn't the commanding officer have initiated the lockdown after the station was breached?"

"It looks like she did, Commander, but the turbolift's operational log indicates that the lockdown was rescinded about half an hour after it was ordered, and then reactivated a few minutes later. All those orders should have come from Ops, but I'm not sure about the last two? Why would the commander release the security lockdown during the middle of an incursion, and then reinitiate it again?"

Truul's subordinate adjusted her blast helmet nervously. "I've got a bad…"

The Major's comlink chirped suddenly, cutting the soldier off.

"Truul here."

"Major, this is Lieutenant Elbran. We've reached the docked shuttle."

"Status?"

"The ship appears to be functional, sir, but the crew and passengers…"

"Lieutenant?"

"They're dead, sir. All of them. It looks like a few Zerg got in through the boarding hatch. They were packed in so tightly… We killed of the creatures that were inside. They were… eating the remains. Seven Hells…"

Somehow, the chilling silence that had been following the detachment since it set out seemed to deepen even further. "Keep yourself together, Elbran," Truul ordered stonily. "See if you can lock down the ship, and then get back to the insertion shuttle. Tell the pilot to prep for departure. We're getting out of here."

Deactivating the device, he nodded in the female Alliance soldier's direction. "See if you can raise Worf's team. If they're close to the Engineering section, tell them to reactivate the core if they can, seal the compartment, and then head back to the shuttle."

"My orders were to hold that section, and the bridge, until the Admiral could dispatch more security forces to retake the station," Slovach interjected.

Truul stared at her. "We don't have enough manpower to hold this wreck, Commander. You counted on us reinforcing the station's crew; it's looking more and more like they're all dead, and I'm not going to keep my soldiers here, on unknown ground, facing an enemy of unknown numbers and strength, any longer than I have to. You and your Klingon friends down there can stay in this graveyard if you want, but I suggest you transport, or whatever it is you all do, back to your ships until your Admiral decides she can commit more troops to this operation."

"Sir," the female soldier put in, holding the headset built into her helmet up to one ear. "Worf is reporting that they have located seven survivors in the medical section, and another two on the central Promenade. However, he reports that there appears to be a… resonator malfunction of some sort within the core interfering with their communications with the ships of the fleet. He's left the survivors under guard in the Medbay until they can be transported, and is approaching the Engineering section."

"Has he encountered any resistance?" Truul demanded.

"Yes, sir. Several contacts, but no friendly casualties so far."

Slovach slapped the combadge on her chest. "_Versailles_, come in. _Versailles_!"

"If there is a resonator malfunction in the core, the interference it emits would probably be more intense closer to the center of the station, and would disrupt long-range communication," the technician commented. "We should be able to reach the fleet from the docking ring or one of the outer pylons, but we would have to move out there to be transported safely."

"All right, we can get out of here together." Truul stepped towards the tech still elbow deep in the wall interface. "Lock that thing down again. We're leaving."

"We are not!" Commander Slovach interjected again, growing increasingly irritated. "These men are under my command, and they will stay until we complete our objective. I appreciate your assistance, Major, but I will not have you subverting my command! Retreat if you wish, but we're staying."

Abruptly, the blast doors to the lift opened into an empty shaft, and a loud whirr echoed down from several decks above. "Lockdown bypass complete," the seconds tech declared with satisfaction, seemingly oblivious to the debate raging behind him.

All eyes now trained on the vacant space, conversation ceased and all below waited in nervous silence as the whirr increased in volume, foretelling the lift cab's arrival. In a flash of motion and with a mechanical sigh, it locked into place.

Every inch, from floor to wall to handrail, was smeared with blood.

No one spoke, moved, or even breathed for a long moment. As the situation aboard the station had continually worsened, every one of them had had held a suspicion deep down that the command section might have been compromised, Deep Space Nine truly lost, but being confronted with an omen such as this wrenched the inkling to the surface and replaced it with the cold grip of fact. Even Truul, who had no attachment to the station and the people that it held, couldn't help his heart jumping in his chest. He had served a long time with the Rebellion, and had seen some of the worst atrocities that the Imperial Moffs and bloodthirsty commanders could commit. He did not wish such brutality on any sentient, except, perhaps, those who bore the Imperial emblem with pride. And then, even they did not treat their victims with such animalistic cruelty.

"We're moving out soldier. Now." Truul shouldered his blaster rifle and began to walk back down the dark hallway, his subordinate in tow. "I suggest you all come with me, but I won't force ya. Coming, Templar?"

"Something yet breathes up there," the Protoss intoned, more to himself than any of the others.

Truul paused. "The creatures, you mean?"

"No, I sense a thinking being. The emanation is weak, strangled, but it is there nonetheless. But it is fading."

"One of the crew?" Slovach asked hopefully.

"I do not know."

The commander considered for a moment, and then stepped forward, delicately placing her feet on the slick, gory interior of the lift. "If there is a chance anyone is still alive up there, I'm going to try and find them. It is my duty as a Starfleet officer. And a human being," she added, pointedly. "Duvor, grab your medical pack come with me. You too, Hill. The rest of you, guard this junction and await my orders. If I don't report back in ten minutes, make your way back to the docking ring and transport out of here."

Reluctant, but firm in their obligation to their superior, the two crewmen she had mentioned stepped in the turbolift cab. After them, to her surprise, stooped Tassadar, who took up a majority of the remained of the small space. "You don't need to endanger yourself…"

"I have duties of my own, Commander," the Protoss replied solemnly. "I am obligated to fight the Zerg wherever they reveal themselves, and save any from them who can be saved. And I feel that there is something up there that I must see. Someone I must save."

He turned to Truul. "Do what you must, Major, but I cannot leave this place yet."

Truul gritted his teeth in frustration. He owed the alien nothing personally; they had never fought alongside one another, had never conversed onboard the _Republica_. Tassadar was no soldier of the Rebellion, and likely did not hate the Empire has he did. And yet, Truul had heard reports and rumors, that the templar had fought the Dark Lord of the Sith himself to defend Admiral Ackbar and the _Home One_ at Sullust. The thought of any one being standing up to Vader and winning, especially since the Jedi Purge was ridiculous, but of course, so were a great many of the things that had occurred since he happened across a hapless Starfleet engineer and his hover tank of a companion in the bowels of that Star Destroyer, but a week ago. And then there was his performance on the bridge of the _Republica_…

Of course, in the end, Tassadar's value to the Rebellion or whatever respect he might warrant for his skill were irrelevant. Captain Ryceed had placed the alien, and all of his compatriots, under Truul's care. And he wasn't about to abandon that duty.

With a last weary expulsion of breath, the Major paced back to the rest of the squad and edged into the turbolift with the others. "Guard this area with the rest, soldier. We won't be long. We'd better not be."

Despite the macabre nature of their conveyance, the brief assent in the turbolift was surprisingly mundane. Its power restored, the platform worked smoothly and without undue noise, depositing it's passengers at the rear of the large, circular Ops chamber in under a minute. Their destination, however, bore little resemblance to anything that could be considered normal.

The lack of corpses that Truul had noticed on the trip to the turbolift was more than rectified; every deck panel, every low step, every crew pit, every control terminal, was draped with a mangled form. Human, Bajoran, Vulcan, even Klingon. And there were Zerg, mountains of them. Most were of the same canine variety that they had encountered before, but others were larger, laid heavy with, thick, slimy carapaces and jutting claws. Others looked like monstrous, crested snakes, with huge bony jaws and meter long blades at the tip of each narrow arm. And handful were even more hideous, humanoids that looked like they had been grown rather than born, covered in purplish insectoid protrusions, muscled limbs by some foul liquid.

The stench of death was almost unbearable, and omnipresent. Nothing lived in there.

Slovach and her officers were apparently at a loss for words; one of them looked like he was only barely summoning the resolve not throw up. Truul took the sight, and the smell, better, but not by much; he had seen the sights of massacres and battlefields before, but few had looked like this. Blasters were messy weapons, but they generally allowed their targets the dignity of remaining intact. Claws and teeth afforded no such privilege.

"How…?" Slovach managed at last, stepping tentatively off the lift cab. "How could so many have gotten in here?"

"See for yourself." Truul, already stepping gingerly into the heart of the bloody room, indicated to several points in the wall. There were three small squares onto emptiness, each with mangled fragments of bulkhead still hanging pitifully from them. "I guess they overestimated the ability of metal to hold 'em back. The bigger ones probably came in through the lift when the lockout was released."

Glancing down at what might have been a human, a fragment of claw still impaling his chest, Truul turned back to the others. "Make your search quick, Commander. If these things did this once, they'll probably come back here again, and I doubt we have the numbers to hold them."

Slovach and her men fanned out, scanning each corner of the room with their tricorders, trying to avoid staring at the carnage all around them. As they worked, Tassadar, drifted slowly across the chamber, finally halting at the main viewport, still sealed by a blast covering. Looking back over the battlefield, he head and lowered his issued a whispered incantation, passing the blessings of ancient Protoss heroes onto the dead. The words would mean little to one of another race, and few of his kind would have bothered, but Tassadar had seen too much war and death over his long life to care about the distinction. They died in battle, in defense of their beliefs and their kin. Nothing else mattered.

As he finished completed the quiet prayer and began to raise his head, one shimmering eye spied something at his feet. It was a humanoid corpse, ravaged and bloody like all the rest, and yet, there was something different about it. Pulling his cloak up, Tassadar bent a reverse knee and placed his own head next to that of the body. Closing each eye and summoning arcane energy from deep within, an imperceptible psionic aura radiated from him, intersecting the corpse with probing tendrils.

"What are you doing?" Major Truul inquired, kneeling down next to him, still keeping one eye on the open access conduits.

Tassadar was silent for a moment, and then raised his head once, more turning both eyes onto the human. They had reverted to their normal black, but gray shadows still flickered erratically under the glossy surface. "There is something about this being that is not right."

Truul looked at the body again. "I don't see anything."

"There may be no visible mark. It is difficult to explain to one who does not have psionic energy flowing through their body and mind, as I do. You may not be sense it, but this soul has been defiled on more than just the physical plane. It is as if some dark energy tried in impose itself on this one's mind. The method was a clumsy one, and it seems he died before the ritual could be completed, but that it could be attempted at all bodes ill. No Zerg sort of the Overmind, the foul master of these things, should possess the psionic presence to directly impose its will on one that is not of the Brood. And even he was never wholly successful, to my knowledge."

Truul inspected to corpse even more closely. He still couldn't see anything.

"For a time, when I was still amongst my own people, I sought the teachings of a Protoss sect long rejected by the majority of the Empire, banished into the cold blackness for their practices and abilities. They too harness and wield the base energies present within each of my kind, but their method is a subtler one, emphasizing the power of stealth and mental focus. Some of their greatest warriors, giving themselves wholly over to their arcane power and combining with another of similar focus and strength, can even use their psionic ability to dominate the minds of other thinking creatures, Protoss, Zerg, or Terran. Your kind. I feel the remnants of such an imposition on this dead mind."

"Could there be other Protoss here, in this galaxy?" Truul ventured, oddly captivated by the Templar's musings.

"No. I would have sensed some sign of their presence, especially if one had passed by this station. And none of my people would willingly work with these creatures, it violates our very purpose. The Protoss Empire exists to spread order, and these things breed only chaos. Or… that is at least how it once was." Tassadar seemed to actually flinch, some distant memory momentarily disrupting his focus.

"But that is of no relevance. One of these twisted creatures was able to carry this dark energy within itself, and impose it on another, no matter how clumsily. But I do not know how such a thing is possible. For the Zerg to evolve so quickly, and to such an extent. If I am right, I fear that she may know possess a power and a swarm greater even than that of her old master. Greater than me, Greater than all of us."

Truul was about to inquire as to who exactly "she" was when a shout rang across the chamber. "We've found someone!"

The broad stairway to the station commander's ready room was littered with just as many bodies as the rest of the room, but once Tassadar and Truul entered the office, the carnage abruptly stopped.

"The doors were sealed from the inside, and we just managed to pry them open," Slovach commented, guiding them towards a large desk at the rear of the spartan room, behind which the other two crewmen were crouched.

One of them looked up from his work. "She's alive, sir, but in pretty bad shape. Massive internal injuries and blood loss. If we don't get her to a medical facility soon, she'll die."

The other stepped closer, indicating to a small terminal set in the table. "It looks like she managed to reroute several of the primary functions to this computer, but I'm not sure what she was trying to do. The log indicates that she sent the core into standby mode and tried to cut secondary power from most of the critical systems, like the turbolifts and lighting systems. It also looks like she overloaded the resonator that's disrupting our communications."

Puzzling over the quandary for a moment, Slovach turned her attention to the unconscious form sprawled face-first on the floor, dressed one of the simple uniforms of the Bajoran Militia. Her limbs and back were covered in numerous gashes and puncture wounds, including one that was oozing with some sort of purplish puss. Delicately, the man with the medical tricorder moved her onto her back.

Commander Slovach's expression softened slightly. "It is her. Commander Nerys survived."

Truul looked at her war-weary yet still young, ridge-nosed face for a moment in concern, but his attention was quickly diverted. Standing next to him, Tassadar had suddenly reeled backward, one hand clutching his head as if to shield it from sudden assault. His eyes were clamped shut.

"What happened? What is it?" Truul ventured, moving to support the Protoss.

"It's… I am drained. This expedition has been taxing, and I have not yet fully recovered from the slaying of the Celebrate. If you still wish to depart, I will go with you now."

Unsatisfied with the reply, but unwilling to press the matter, Truul turned back to Slovach. "We've found your survivor. Me and my soldiers are heading back. Now. Do you still want to try and hold this graveyard?"

Taking another long look at the station commander, Slovach shook her head. "No, I think you were right. We can't hold the station, or even Ops, right now, with these numbers. Duvor, can you shut down the resonator that's interfering with communications?"

The crewman punched in a few commands. "I just did, sir."

"All right. Truul, contact the other units and tell them to activate their subspace tracers and prepare for immediate beam-out."

"Sir, I don't think we can risk transporting Commander Nerys," the attending crewman put in. "Her life signs are too weak."

"So we'll take her back on our insertion shuttle," Truul said, strapping his weapon over a shoulder and pulling some emergency medical implements from his own gear. "Do what you want, but I'm not getting in one of the transporter things, and I doubt any of my men would particularly like the idea either. You there, help me raise her. Then see if you can finds something flat to put her on."

Slovach glared at the Major as he pushed past her and carefully grabbed the limp form's legs, but managed to shake off her annoyance at the man's attitudes. "All right. We walk."


	35. Chapter Fifty Three

Chapter Fifty Three

With a tug, the dark side adept Lumiya completed her thick, black head wrap, obscuring her face entirely, save for two intense, probing eyes. The ritual of removing and replacing the headdress was a tedious one, but essential for tending the irreparably scarred flesh beneath. For a time after the incident which had given her those wounds along with a host of others that had nearly killed her, the woman could barely stand to look at her own visage in a mirror as she treated necrotized skin; it reminded her too much of the failure that had ravaged her so. However, as time passed and she had become more accustomed to the cyborg parts that had been implanted to restore her body's abilities, she began to view the procedure as an opportunity, an image with which she could push herself further, and draw upon the dark energies that raged within.

Lumiya was a creature of a singular purpose. After her life as an Imperial spy had been cut short by the perception of rebel Luke Skywalker, she had devoted herself totally to the study of the Dark Side, both to please Darth Vader, who had rebuilt and retrained her after the catastrophic failure, and to convince herself that she still held value. With Vader's tutelage and the arcane Sith resources of the late Emperor, her power had increased greatly in only a short time, and her tainted past faded further and further out of mind. Sent to the ancient Sith world Ziost to meditate upon the nuances of the Dark Side, Lumiya continued her training diligently and even constructed a lightwhip, a weapon scarcely seen in the galaxy since the fall of the ancient Sith Empire. Ever more confident in her swelling power and knowledge, she had even begun to think of herself as a Dark Lady of the Sith, capable of standing abreast of even the likes of Vader and Palpatine.

But then the Emperor had died. Though unfailingly loyal to him, Lumiya had nonetheless felt far more kinship with his apprentice, and thus when she learned that Vader had assumed control of the Empire, she was not at all distressed. However, ever since the Imperial leadership had suffered its great upset, her connection the Force seemed distorted, a taint unrelated to her growing dominion over the energy field. Though she could still touch it easily and her skill in combat had not dulled, meditation on the Dark Side's infinite power no longer left her exhilarated, as it always had before. The pain, fear, anger, and hate of others, essential sustenance for one who bent the Force to their will, seemed muted, as if the carnal energy of each emotion was drained before it reached her.

She had hoped that Darth Vader would be able to find the root of this sudden dullness and expunge it, but he had disappeared before she could even leave Ziost, leading a fleet toward some unknown end into blackness so distant that she could no longer even feel his lingering presence. Instead, she had been placed in the company of the Sith Lord's Twi'lek servant Aayla, one whom she had never even heard of before she intruded upon Lumiya's studies. She had been impressed by the woman's presence in the Force, and thus joined in her crusade of inquisition with little complaint, hoping that the alien might rejuvenate her connection to the Dark Side by osmosis. Instead, the disturbing absence had only grown, and was now even beginning to interfere with simple feats of Force perception.

Nevertheless, the Twi'lek's mission was a directive of Lord Vader, and she was obligated to take part in it, no matter what misgivings she held. In the short time since the Sith Lord had vanished, Lumiya and her brooding compatriot had crisscrossed the Galaxy in the Twi'lek's shuttle, tracking down each name on a list of individuals Vader's new apprentice produced for their use. On it were listed men and women from every sector of Imperial society: local politicians, stormtrooper officers, COMPNOR executives, Imperial Guardsmen, star destroyer captains, Moffs, admirals, and even some of the Emperor's former inner circle. Those that still lived, in any event.

Most of the time, Aayla would simply observe the person in question from afar, or meet with them briefly under deceptive pretenses; few even knew that she was an agent of Vader's. Others, however, quickly fell victim to her blade: Grand Admiral Syn, advisors Xandel Carvius and Burr Nolyds, Force adept guardsman Carnor Jax, a handful of other influential captains and administrators, all slain quietly and in cold blood. Lumiya had never actually witnessed the executions, and had only unleashed her lightwhip once, to dispatch the bodyguards of an offending admiral, but she had no doubt that they occurred. The Twi'lek bore an aura of death that was undeniable.

All the alien would say on the purpose of this covert purge was that it was on the direct order of Lord Vader, and intended to remove any individuals that might weaken or seek to subvert the Sith Lord's new authority. However, Lumiya was unsure as to how exactly Aayla identified who on the list was loyal and who was not. When asked, the Twi'lek simply refused to say anything at all. Indeed, when they were not discussing the next target, the woman kept completely to herself, deflecting all attempts at conversation and repelling every mental probe Lumiya sent her way. This secretive behavior had quickly begun to wear on Lumiya, and recently she had found herself questioning their entire endeavor. More than the alien's hidden methods and motive, the targets they sought out worried her. She couldn't quite place the root of her apprehension, but there was something odd about the list all the same.

Nevertheless, be it because of their efforts, or the ever-present threat of Vader's return, the Empire continued to function effectively even without Palpatine at its head. A few prominent officials, including Grand Vizier Sate Pestage, had vanished in the wake of the "terrorist" strikes that had decapitated the Empire and then wiped out most of his closest advisors, but by and large, the ruling groups had taken the changes in stride. Vader had left little in the way of instruction on the restructuring of the Empire's upper levels, which had depended almost entirely on Palpatine and his staff for direction previously, but a few ambitious and enterprising officials had taken the initiative nonetheless. Grand Moff Disra had convened an emergency Committee of the Grand Moffs on Coruscant, which could serve as a provisional legislative body. Lord Crueya Vandron, who had been subjected to one of Aayla's longest interrogations, ensured the confused populace that the Imperial infrastructure was as robust as ever. The Grand Admirals and Imperial Intelligence quelled riots and silenced defectors encouraged by the Emperor's death. The Rebel Alliance might have posed a problem to stability, but a pair of successive defeats at the hands of the newly-crowned imperator had effectively crushed the insurgent movement, or so the Imperial new service so gleefully reported.

The latest target on the pair's list had taken them to Deep Space Checkpoint C-4401, a small Imperial security station positioned along the Byss Run, a little-traveled and highly secure hyperspace lane that plunged straight into the heart of the galactic core. Aayla had instructed Lumiya to locate the station's commander and probe his mind for any potentially rebellious thoughts, and then had departed on the Lambda shuttlecraft before the other dark jedi could protest, on the pretense of "checking on a feeling". The station commander ended up being completely unremarkable, a diligent and loyal man with no ambitions beyond an early retirement, and so Lumiya had nothing to do but wait for the Twi'lek's return.

In the two days since, she had focused, with little success, on returning clarity of the Force to her mind, and determining what her companion might be up to. Aayla's apparent destination, the planet Byss of the Beshqek system, did not appear on the file of potential targets. Lumiya recalled one of the Emperor's advisors mentioning the name once in a whispered conversation, but beyond that, she knew little of it. According to the station's databank, it was an unremarkable, urbanized world, host to an Imperial prison colony and a fleet staging yard. Still, Lumiya noted that the entirety of traffic that passed by the security station seemed to be heading directly for the planet, and much of the cargo ships were carrying highly sensitive and classified cargos. Heavily-armed escort vessels were common.

And what was more, even with her perception weakened, the adept could sense a strong presence in the Force somewhere relatively nearby in the galactic void. She could not be sure, but the sensation was similar to the aura of dark power she had felt while on Ziost, or while visiting the Sith graveworld Korriban. Perhaps Aayla had "been checking on a feeling," after all.

As Lumiya finished dressing, a sudden premonition sparked into her mind. Aayla had returned. Wasting no time, the warrior retrieved her lightwhip and exited the small room she had been given, blowing past Imperial crewmen in the halls beyond who had been instructed to remain out of their guest's way. The Twi'lek carried pass codes that ensured them both unfettered access to all Imperial facilities and computers, and immunity from most regulations. The exemptions had proved quite useful, save when Aayla decided that a ranking officer had failed her loyalty test.

The shuttle was waiting in the main docking bay, prepped for departure, and the blue Twi'lek was still seated in the pilot's seat when Lumiya climbed onboard. Before she was even to the cockpit, the vessel was on the move again, rocketing through the bay atmospheric shield and angling off through space, away from the densely packed stars of the Core. Now used to her companion's abrupt and unilateral manner, Lumiya took her seat and watched as the starfield outside surged towards the main viewport, and then vanished into the void of hyperspace.

"The commander was beyond suspicion. I sensed no danger from him," the cyborg said at last. "Of course, I suspect you already knew that." As soon as Aayla stranded her on the station, Lumiya had realized that her mission had most likely been a diversion, one that would allow the other to proceed to another destination alone.

The Twi'lek did not reply, instead calling up her target file and scanning past those who had already been cleared or neutralized.

"You found what you were looking for?" Lumiya pressed.

"Yes."

Beneath her wrap, the human snarled soundlessly. She had managed to retain her composure since their mission had begun, but it was becoming more and more difficult for her to tolerate Aayla's obstinate and dismissive attitude towards her. And the disciples of the Sith were not known for patience with obstinacy. "And what, exactly, did you find?"

Aayla turned sharply in her seat, suddenly radiating barely-contained fury. Her cold eyes reached out like supernovas, questing to annihilate all in their path. "Do you doubt? Do you think I am acting for any goal other than the empowerment of our master?"

Lumiya was taken aback by the ferocity of the response. "I never said…"

"Then do not presume to question me! Lord Vader tasked me with this mission! You are here because he believes that you can assist me in achieving his ends, and no other reason! It is my choice to decide how to proceed, and you have no authority to question me. Do it again, and I will kill you!"

Normally, such an order from anyone but her master would have immediately incited Lumiya to attack, even in the confines of the shuttlecraft, and she did indeed reach momentarily for her weapon's hilt, but something stopped her. Indignation and dark rage bubbled within her, demanding blood to appease the insult the alien had inflicted, but another force, the same that had halted her back on Ziost, stayed the cyborg's hand. Now, however, she truly understood what the emotion was. Neither obligation nor restraint nor curiosity had stayed the assault. No, this was fear. Simple, unmitigated fear.

The two were frozen for a long while, one rending the air with her burning aura as the other sat transfixed, paralyzed by the overwhelming emotion. Finally, the latter submitted, dropping her weapon hand and slumping back, resigned to subservience for the moment. There was a power within the Twi'lek that was to be reckoned with, but Lumiya would never submit to it, not truly. The incident would only serve to feed her anger and suspicion, and the Dark Side flourished upon such things.

From his appointed quarters onboard the _August Judgment_, the Arbiter looked on as countless millions died. The slaughter was not live, of course; instead a recording projected into the center of his spacious apartment, but its impact was undiminished. Warships of the Holy Covenant, among the mightiest weapons forged since the disappearance of the Forerunners, ignited by the dozens, obscured simulated stars with their death throes. Again and again, the dwindling armada formed and reformed, charging through the void with weapons blazing, incited by the fall of their comrades. And again and again, the vengeful hammer would shatter, shredded by spears of livid green light. Each vessel fought valiantly nonetheless, and it would have been a truly glorious conflict, save for one fact. The Covenant did not lose.

At length, the projection focused in on a single besieged group of vessels, the last of the defenders left in place. A pair of titanic assault carriers launched volleys of blistering plasma in every direction, while a swarm of smaller ships formed a shell around them, engaging any attacker who came close with reckless abandon. To any known foe, the sight of such firepower alone would have alone been reason enough to rethink any advance. But the opponents they faced now were well beyond being impressed by the defiant fusillade.

Like a poisoned blade, an Imperial Star Destroyer sliced into the outer perimeter of the defensive shell and immediately set its own brand of toxin to work. Dozens of energetic bolts streamed from the multitude of orderly notches on its broad surface, each one converting a careening starfighter or attack ship into a cloud of super-heated debris. Those that survived had only moments to reflect upon the annihilation of their companions before death came for them as well, this time in the form of a black and gunmetal wave; TIE fighters in number beyond counting.

With the lesser prey deftly vanquished, the triangular hunter turned its focus onto the pair of steadfast battleships. With their own fates now clear, the ships rent space with their drives and pushed forward, intent on embracing the attacker in their own destruction. Though it knew of the danger that now bore down upon it immediately, the destroyer did not turn away or even halt the doomed marauders with its guns; it waited. Hope swept though the crews of the Covenant ships. The enemy had faltered in the face of their selfless act, and now they could at least lend some meaning to their deaths. But it was not so.

As turbolaser bolts, unleashed by half a dozen other Imperial cruisers beyond the direct sphere of the melee, dashed the hopeless charge and sent the last remaining warrior ships plowing into one another far from their intended prey, the Arbiter's fists slowly clenched. This engagement had played out identically to numerous others, as he knew it would, but the Sangheili had watched nonetheless. His kinsmen, brave and true warriors, good beings all, had just died in vast numbers in a hopeless fight, and honoring their sacrifice by bearing witness to it was the least he could do.

The _August Judgment_ had only narrowly escaped the massacre itself. The battle group commanded by 'Nefaaleme had managed to surround an outlying group of Imperial ships, and then cripple one of the smaller star destroyers and its escort ships. The firefight had yielded relatively limited casualties, but by the time 'Nefaaleme could turn his attention to the larger battle the Covenant armada was already collapsing. Though it outnumbered the twenty large star destroyers by more than four times, and vastly more by tonnage, the sheer firepower and neigh invulnerable shielding of the extra-galactic human warships more than made up for their numerical disadvantage. Even the smaller Imperial ships could stand up to Covenant warships nearly a dozen times their size, and though the Seraph wings were a closer match for the enemy's fightercraft, the sheer number of TIE fighters deployed had swiftly overwhelmed them.

The decision to call for a retreat had been a difficult one for the _August Judgment_'s ship master, even after the Imperial fleet had breached the Covenant lines so far that they were bombarding ground teams on what remained of the captured world's surface. Admitting defeat, though a completely valid tactical decision, was a mark on the Sangheili personal honor, which was already tarnished by his recent failed challenge. Nevertheless, the warrior had kept managed to restrain himself and issued a general withdraw, and then lead his group out of the system before they attracted the attention of the victors. Very few others followed suit.

After pausing briefly to beam an alert message to the nearest communications repeater station, which would hopefully reach the reinforcements still heading for the overrun system before it was too late, the _August Judgment_ and its escorts had set course for the heart of the Holy Covenant Empire, straining their slipstream drives to their limits. 'Nefaaleme was determined to relay the magnitude of this new threat face to face with the High Council, and for once the Arbiter was in complete agreement with his decision. If there was anything that could be done to stop the impending betrayal by the Prophets and their lackeys, the Arbiter knew that the capital _High Charity_ was where it had to be undertaken. However, he had yet to figure out just what exactly had to be done, and how the unexpected arrival of the Galactic Empire would factor into his plan.

For the moment, though, there were more pressing matters that had to be attended to. The trip would take at least a week, perhaps more, depending upon where the mobile capital currently lay in space, and though he had been cowed to some degree, 'Nefaaleme was still a threat as long as he remained onboard the carrier. If the ship master were to discover even an inkling of duplicity on his superior's part, the Arbiter's mission, his life, and the lives of his human charges could all be placed in jeopardy.

The warrior was confident that he could keep 'Nefaaleme occupied with matters of honor and fleet politics until they arrived at _High Charity_, but there were still holes in his cover story that needed filling. The non-existent transport he had supposedly piloted in would have to somehow appear, and the records of the vehicle that he had actually arrived upon might need subtle alteration. The Arbiter was confident that Ship Master and Supreme Commander Teno 'Falanamee could convince a Huragok technician to carry out the tasks; if given a challenging enough technical task, the single-minded alien probably wouldn't even wonder why it was doing what it had been ordered to do. However, there were a few other loose ends that might prove more difficult to tie up.

The _August Judgment_'s secondary Unggoy warren was a low hall barely over ten meters long, dimly lit, choked with methane fog, and quite cold. Most intelligent species would have been applaud to learn that the space was where a population of nearly one hundred workers and guards slept, ate, and spent their off-hours, scarce as they were. To the chamber's inhabitants, however, the warren was quite cozy, reminiscent of the breeding pits where their kind was birthed in pods of dozens.

After countless generations of being on the very bottom wrung of a war-like and authoritarian society, Unggoy needs were by necessity few. They slept curled up in small alcoves with their comrades and relations. Their sanitation facilities were communal and basic, explaining the pervasive odor that mixed into the methane haze. Nutrients were ingested via tube-squeezed pastes and sticky liquids, affectionately nicknamed 'food nipples'.

At the moment, a tangled knot of the latter amenities were being dispensed from automated hatches in the ceiling. Since the first feeding period serviced all Unggoy of the barrack regardless of their shift, status, or position, the chamber was as packed as it ever got, with stocky reptiliods standing shoulder to shoulder and closer to receive their allotted share of nutrition for the morning. Dense packets of sturdy muscle, the creatures required an impressive amount of food and enjoyed every ounce of it, even the tasteless goop that constituted a majority of their diets. After gathering up their rations, each would plop down next to or on top of pod mates and coworkers and chat squeakily about their mundane lives and simple dreams.

Today, the crowd around crewers Migaw and Cakap was unusually large. To beings who spent most of their short lives in the bowels of a warship, attending to the same monotonous duties day after day, anything new or unexpected was seized upon, and the pair's tale was truly unique.

"So after these guys, these intruders, after they leave the cargo bay, I start looking around for some way out of the alcove," Migaw was recounting, conveying his story with excessive gesticulation. "We hadn't picked up much stuff on the mission, so it was pretty empty. Just me and the energy field blocking the door, oh, and this lump, still asleep on the deck."

"I got hit too, you know," Cakap retorted. "It's not my fault your skulls thicker than mine."

Migaw waved a stubby paw at him dismissively. "Anyways, after I looked around a little bit more, I found an old charge siphon jammed in a ventilation grate. One of those really old ones, you know, two prongs. It still had the static gel coating on the handle. It wasn't working, but the points were still sharp, so I took it over to the patch behind where the field control was and I pried at the plate until it gave a bit, and then I dug through some of the ancillary monitor wiring until I found the cargo bay field feed. After that, it wasn't hard to cut the power to the energy wall, drag this useless sack of bone to the main hatch, jack it, and get out of there."

"You didn't try to get the Sangheili out with you?" one of the Unggoy's comrades asked. He already knew the answer, as Migaw had already related the tale twice, but he, like the rest of the audience, was thoroughly enjoying himself, and was eager to extend the conversation.

"You know the elite, always so bossy and loud," Migaw replied eagerly. "He probably would have had us attack those humans unarmed if I'd got him out. Besides, he was still out when I got free, and I didn't really feel like dragging him along too. And I did get her free in the end; who do you think was the one who lead the guard commander back to the ship?"

Cakap hit Migaw in the shoulder. "You didn't lead him back, you beak face. I saw it. All you did was come up to him groveling and whining, and blubber all about the mean heretics who attacked you."

The Unggoy paused to take a draft of his nutrient tube, and then leaned back onto the bony side of a sleeping pod mate before continuing. "In fact, I would believe the rest of the story, either. I bet the humans just figured that you were too worthless to be bothered with and tossed you in a corner. You can't cut a power line like you said you did, and if you did, the flow would have fried those little eyes of yours right out of your thick skull."

Migaw threw up his lanky arms, nearly hitting three members of his audience. "As I said, the siphon still had its gel coat. And I wouldn't talk about worthless. What did you do in all this, aside from taking a nap?"

Cakap shot his companion an indignant look. "If I hadn't gotten off that derelict when I did, they would have flown off without us, and you'd be sucking vacuum right now."

Migaw let loose a loud, barking laugh. "All you did was get scared, sleepyhead. I was the one who actually had to work to save our heads."

As the two continued to bicker, the crowd shared a few more moments of merriment, and then began to disperse, workers sensing that their brief feeding period was coming to a close. After the area around Migaw and Cakap had cleared somewhat, another Unggoy was able to push his way through, his rounded mouth clenched in irritation.

"You two, there's a Sangheili outside the hatch who wants to see you, and she doesn't seem very happy, even for them."

The companions stopped fighting and glanced at each other nervously. There was only one Sangheili who would want to see them off-duty.

"You'd better hurry up. I don't think long-legs will get happier if you keep her waiting. Besides, she's blocking the door."

Grudgingly, Migaw and Cakap worked their way through the crowd to the entrance of the warren, located their uniforms, and hastily put the bulky, armored garments on. After making sure their methane tanks were full and their breath masks operational, the two exchanged another look and then stepped into the airlock and the ship beyond.

Though female Sangheili were marginally smaller and less muscular than their male counter parts, compared to Unggoy their stature was no less imposing. Adding to her distinct advantage in size, the withering glare that Deau 'Mefasee met her subordinates with as soon as they stepped out into the main hallway stopped made them immediately drop their heads in supplication. As a female, the Sangheili was relegated to the lowest levels of society, forced to serve as a lowly transport pilot, as evidence by her blue novice's armor, but among the Unggoy, she was held absolute authority.

"You left me to the humans?" she rumbled. "You left me unconscious in that infernal cargo bay while you saved your own worthless hides?"

Shakily, Cakap tried to look up, but immediately looked down again, tensing for an impending blow. "It was not my fault, Excellency. I... I was unconscious as well. It was Migaw who decided to flee."

Migaw shivered, feeling his commander's icy stare pass onto his quivering skull. After swearing mortal revenge upon his companion silently, he found his voice. "I throw myself upon your mercy, Excellency. I did not wish to leave you, but I could not risk alerting the humans of my escape by stopping to free you. I thought it was best to get help immediately."

The toe of 'Mefasee's boot nudged Cakap's methane tank. "And yet you paused to burden yourself with him?"

Migaw attempted to bow further, causing him to bump his head on the metal deck plate. "I was not thinking clearly, Excellency. I feared that they might kill him if I left Cakap alone. I am deeply sorry for delaying your rescue because of it."

"We will accept punishment for our failure without complaint, great one," Cakap put in miserably.

The Sangheili was silent for a few moments, and though neither dared to look up, both knew that she was fuming. Most of the time, the pilot was relatively easygoing, for one of her kind, and seemed to tolerate the lesser races of the Covenant more than her male counterparts, but she also had a foul temper. Her punishments rarely involved much physical damage, but they were nonetheless loathsome. The last time Grink, an avian Kig-Yar their ship's operations chief, had got on the Sangheili's bad side, she had given him a atmosphere tank and made him live in the secondary Unggoy warren for a dozen duty cycles. Grink, like most of his kind, disdained their stocky, reptilian counterparts; there was, of course, also the matter of the cold. The two didn't even want to imagine what she would do to them.

Finally, she sighed, exasperated. "Get up, you two. Grovel on your own time." Her voice was clear tinged with anger still, but it was no longer overtly hostile.

Relieved, if confused, by the sudden change, Migaw and Cakap rose to their flat feet, although they retained their subservient postures.

Waiting until both of them met her yellow eyes, 'Mefasee continued. "All right. Migaw, you reported that there was a Sangheili with the humans who commandeered my ship. The one who knocked both of you out." She raised a hand to the back of her head, and then with drew it swiftly. "The one who struck me from behind."

Migaw nodded nervously. "Yes, Excellency. I saw him before he hit me, and then talking with one of the humans after I recovered. He took your uniform."

"Yes, I know," the female Sangheili said bitterly. "But this attacker was not on found onboard my ship when it was recaptured."

"No, Excellency. Just as I reported, after I saw him talking with the human, he used the main hatch to leave and board the _August Judgment_. I assume he was a heretic, in league with the humans. Maybe he wanted a better ship. Has he been found?"

'Mefasee clenched a fist and stared off down one hallway. "Not yet. The Guard is searching the ship for stowaways, but I have not been allowed to assist in the search. Officially."

"Tell me Migaw, did you see anything about this coward, aside from his uniform? Anything that might help distinguish him?"

The Unggoy considered for a moment, and then was hit by a sudden memory. "Yes, I remember. He had a very big scare on one side of his face."

'Mefasee leaned closer. "A great many male warriors bear scars from combat on this ship. Can you tell me anything more about what it looked like? Where was it on his face?"

Migaw thought again, trying to jog his memory until something else jogged it for him. "I… I believe it looked like that, Excellency." He pointed a bony finger to the passageway behind his master.

She twisted around to see a tall Sangheili warrior striding towards her from the open iris of a blast door, the gold of his helm nearly disguising a deep gash above his left eye.


	36. Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Four

The main observation lounge of the USS _Versailles_, flagship of what remained of Starfleet, had seen better days. Signs of its former elegance and the characteristic creature comforts of Federation starships were still in evidence: comfortable, high-backed chairs still flanked the room's long, central chamber; a thin, pastel carpet clung to the cold floor plates; one side of the lounge still opened onto space through an expansive, unarmored viewport, but the evidence of wear was far more conspicuous. Nearly half of the long window was obscured by a slab of duranium, bolted on to succor an all-to-recent wound. The interior wall, originally designed with a display alcove for trophies, artifacts, and remembrances, had been replaced with a more sturdy metal plate, extra insurance against the possibility of another hull breach. High along the shadowed walls, fingers of carbonized scouring spidered to and from light panels and computer lines, tokens of deep, omnipresent weariness.

Nevertheless, the chamber still functioned, even if the lighting would fluctuate from time to time as newly-repaired systems deep within the bowels of the starship were reactivated, and no one had objected when it had been chosen as the site of the proceedings underway within.

Fleet Admiral Alynna Nechayev was a formidable woman from the moment she stepped into the room. Though physically gaunt and frail-looking, an image heightened by the shadow of gray that tinged her short, blonde hair, the Starfleet officer possessed a presence that demanded respect. Her stiff posture spoke too of the weight of authority that both kept her alert and wore on her resolve. Though reddened by lack of sleep and worry, her keen eyes still managed to convey a distinct sense of drive and purpose as she carefully scanned each of the others assembled before her.

Seated next to the admiral at the conference table that dominated the center of the room, Captain Picard had just finished a long and extraordinary tale. Indeed, were it not for the outcome of the recent battle, and the presence of many of the key figures of the captain's report, the woman would probably not have believed it. Given the circumstances, however, and the gratitude she personally felt for the simple fact that her ship, her fleet, and the planet below were still intact, she was more amenable to the explanation.

"The Zerg?" she put in after reflecting on all she had learned.

Picard nodded. "Yes. High Templar Tassadar seems to know a great deal about the creatures. He supplied their name."

Nechayev focused on the being in question, who was ensconced in the opposite corner of the room. He had remained largely motionless over the course of the meeting, but his strange, glistening eyes were ever alert.

"Well, we have something to call them now. It's more than out intelligence agents have been able to gather, at least." She shook her head wearily. "Fighting creatures that attack and consume without thought or complex motive is something completely beyond my experience. At least the Dominion would speak with us before they attacked. Even the Borg gave their ultimatum. Not these things, though. They just eat and destroy."

"Do not be deceived." As it always did at first, Tassadar's penetrating 'voice' came as a surprise to the human. "The minions of the swarm may care for nothing but carnage, but there are greater minds that drive them all. Think of them merely as beasts, and what remains of your people will not survive the horde's next onslaught."

Grudgingly, Nechayev nodded in agreement. "Yes, we determined as much not long after the first attacks. No unthinking animals could coordinate as they do, or commandeer our starships so efficiently. We simply have been unable to understand how they behave as they do. Perhaps you can provide more information on their organization and motives?"

"I am tasked with purging the Zerg wherever it may take root. I will assist as I can, but my knowledge alone will not be enough for you to turn the tide. That time past long ago."

"Nonetheless, your aid and your efforts in the defense of Bajor, are greatly appreciated, by myself, and the fleet."

With that, she turned her attention to the others assembled at the long table. Alongside Riker and Data, who had accompanied their captain off of the _Republica_, Councilor Leia Organa, Major Truul and one of his marines, C-3PO, and, to everyone's surprise, Captain Ryceed were seated in silent anticipation.

"And I offer you all my sincerest thanks as well, on behalf of the United Federation of Planets itself. Were it not for the intervention of the _Republica_, I doubt that any sentient in this system would still be left alive."

Ryceed stirred in her seat and looked as though she was about to speak, but Leia acted first, receiving the commendation with an appreciative nod.

"As a representative of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, I accept your thanks. It is our mandate to protect the lives and liberties of sentient beings of all kinds from the touch of tyranny, and though the threat you face is far different from the sort we are used to, we were obligated and willing to offer any assistance we could. Besides, from what I have heard from Captain Picard and his crew, the Federation is devoted to many of the ideals that the Alliance stands for. Helping your nation survive and flourish, as far from our home as it is, only furthers our own goals."

"Well, whatever your reasons, your assistance has not only this fleet and Bajor, but prolonged the survival of a half dozen sovereign powers and their people. And that is what we are fighting for, our very right to exist." Nechayev frowned to herself and folded her hands on front of her. "That brings me to the chief purpose of this assembly. Captain Picard's account was not clear on exactly why you, Councilor Organa, and the _Republica_ are here. It sounds as though you have your own war to fight, and I find it hard to believe that the people of your galaxy so altruistic as to give up a resource like that of our vessel in order to escort a few wayward officers home."

Leia smiled diplomatically. "Your assessment is quite correct, Admiral. In fact, some among the Alliance's leadership did object to our traveling here, but in the end it was decided that the resources offered by a new galaxy, hidden from the Empire and populated by potential allies, were too precious to pass up."

"I'm sure it is obvious to you know that, even if it were inclined to do so, the Federation currently lacks the infrastructure and technology to be able to directly assist the Alliance against any force that could pose a serious threat to you."

Ryceed fidgeted in her seat again, an obvious enough action to draw a veiled glare from Leia before she continued.

"I realize that, and I appreciate your frankness. Nevertheless, I am still of the opinion that this galaxy is a potential boon for the Alliance. It may be the safe haven we need now more than ever, assuming of course that the wormhole that connects our two realms remains stable, or can be modified to do so. And if the Alliance was to relocate some of its operations here, it would be advantageous to have allies who are knowledgeable of the area and its inhabitants available for support and consultation. From what I have seen and heard, the Federation would be an ideal candidate."

"Quite honestly, Councilor, right now the Federation is limited to this cubic light year of space. In the past three months, we have lost more than sixty percent of our worlds, and the rest are completely at the mercy of the Zerg. Bajor, the warships in orbit, and the civilian refugee fleet we have spread out nearby are the sum assets of the Federation, the Klingon Empire, the Cardassian Union, and the Ferengi Alliance. Any other vessels have either fled into the wilds of space or refused to leave their worlds, set upon defending them to the end. There has been no contact with the Romulans since the invasion began, and we can only assume they're facing the same fate that we are. We are friendless and alone in a hostile wasteland, on the brink of total extermination; not an ally I would choose."

Riker and Picard glanced at each other gravely; both had hoped that the reports of the Federation's state they had heard from Ensign Martin and Captain Gehirn were exaggerations, but hearing the dire news from the very head of Starfleet made the conclusions unavoidable. Still, Picard was secretly impressed by the way in which Nechayev had spoken. Rather than be justifiably hopeless at the prospect of annihilation by a horde of pitiless monstrosities, she seemed hardened to the idea, and talked of it as if it were a parameter in a training simulation, simple and unavoidable. As his second in command would no doubt put it, they had all been dealt a hand, and they had to play it, no matter the odds against them.

Leia seemed to stare off into empty space for a moment before answering the Admiral's blunt statement, but when she spoke again, her words were still steady. "There is no denying that the threat that you face is a mortal one, and you are correct, a dead ally is not one at all. Since the survival of the Federation and the stability of this galaxy are of significant concern to the Alliance, pending the establishment of a more extensive presence here, I am willing to offer, on behalf of the Alliance High Council and all affiliated cells, military assistance in dealing with the Zerg threat."

This time Leia could not prevent Ryceed from speaking up. "Forgive me, Councilor, but I must voice my strong misgivings on such an offer. I don't mean to belittle your struggle Admiral, but we've got our own war to worry about, and I don't think we can afford to devote any material or personnel to extended action here. The original concept behind our mission was a sound one, but no one expected to find Picard's galaxy in a state of open war, no matter the opponent. I simply don't see how risking more of our ships and crews to come here and fight is a viable option."

Many officials of Leia's standing, among them members of the High Council, would have been severely taken aback by such an outburst from a mere captain, especially during sensitive negotiations, but she seemed unperturbed. Ryceed's discomfort with her assignment had been plain from the beginning; perhaps the diplomat had been anticipating just such an incident.

"When I offered military assistance, it was not my intent to travel back through the wormhole to gather it," Leia Organa responded coolly, fixing the captain squarely in her gaze.

Ryceed's mouth fell open slightly. "You expect the _Republica_ to fight this war _alone_? You know the condition of my ship full-well; she's badly damaged, down to well under fifty percent combat efficiency, and her crew has been engaged in four separate battles in the last week alone. We're in no shape to conduct a freighter raid, much less topple a galactic power."

"The _Republica_ preformed beyond all expectations against the Zerg fleet, despite its condition," Leia pressed, clearly undaunted. "You had to fight through hundreds of hostile targets to clear a path to the enemy command vessel, and yet your ship, to my knowledge, only received minimal damage. How many of their warships were destroyed, even with the _Republica_'s offensive capability limited? Thirty? Forty?"

"The technological disparity between our galaxy and this one are more than substantial. I don't know how large a force the Zerg command, or how extensive their dominion is, but if they are limited to the technology of this civilization, a single light cruiser may be all that is needed to tip the tide of the war in the favor of the Federation and her allies. Is my assessment correct, Admiral Nechayev?"

The older woman nodded slowly. "Our intelligence on the true scope of the Zerg threat is spotty at best, but considering the level of effectiveness that your vessel had against the hostile fleet, I believe that you may be right. I'm having my tactical department run some simulations on what impact the _Republica_ might have on the outcome of future engagements right now, in fact. Obviously, we don't know much about the actual capabilities of your ship, or how it does what it does, but from what we all saw it do in action, its safe to say that the results will be positive, at the very least."

She paused for a moment and looked out the chamber's viewport. Beyond the transparent aluminum plate, the distant sparks and baubles that were the waning vestiges of once great armadas silently picked over the remnants of a costly victory. When Nechayev spoke again, her voice was somber. "Quite frankly, Councilor Organa, that ship may be last hope we have left. Even if we'd somehow survived this last assault without your assistance, it wouldn't have made much of a difference. The Zerg lost a great many ships here today, but they control many more, far more than we have left. And our efforts to scuttle as many space docks and shipyards as we could before being forced to evacuate each successive system have only been partially successful; if they figure out how to build more of our ships, they can easily replace their losses. We can't."

"If things keep going as they have been, if those creatures keeping spreading to world after world and hunting down anyone who manages to escape, there won't be a single remnant of the Federation left in a year's time. Damn it all, there won't be an Alpha or a Beta Quadrant left. We've tried… I've tried to stop them, but their first strike was too effective, and their expansion too quick. Right now, our only options are to flee or die fighting. Personally, I think the end result of both will be the same."

"I can't promise you much an ally here if you help us fight, Councilor, but I can promise you that there won't be one at all if you don't."

Though the _Republica_ had served as a warship for much of its operational life, like most Mon Calamari vessels, it had been a civilian ship before the amphibian race had been compelled to take up arms against the specter of Imperial domination. Numerous refits had removed or obscured many of its original amenities to make room for weaponry and added armor, but a few remained intact even in the face of military considerations, evidence of the perpetual Calamarinian longing for a return to peace. Most notable among the relics were several sets of broad, transparisteel viewports that lined the corridors that ran along the perimeter of the ship, concentrated mainly around the characteristic bulges that protruded from the warship's midsection.

Jacen Solo stood quietly at one such window, his hands folded behind his back. For the first time since the battle, the hallway in which they stood was relatively quiet, what minimal repairs that were needed having largely been completed and most of the crew on a much needed rest shift, and the soft glow of Bajor's looming disk actually made the weary warship seem rather peaceful. Normally, the young jedi would use such moments to meditate or collect his thoughts, but on this occasion something was keeping him from focusing inward. Of course, he couldn't say he particularly minded the distraction.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Laura Martin asked, leaning her elbows against the transparent barrier as she stared out at the blue-green orb. "I never really appreciated views like these before, but I guess being away from them for a long time can change your perspective. I haven't had a chance to just stop and look out at a planet for months… it feels like longer. It's been too chaotic to do anything but worry about your duties. And try not to think about… well, things."

Sensing that the woman was growing agitated by the memories that still threatened to claw their way back into her conscious thoughts, Jacen broke the uncomfortable silence that followed her comment. For a reason he couldn't quite place, speaking was harder than it should have been, but he managed nonetheless. "I'm enjoying the view, too."

"…err, of the planet, I mean," he added quickly, grimacing slightly. _Focus Jacen._ Laura didn't seem to notice him falter. "It reminds me of home. Well, one of my homes, at least. I spent a lot of time on a world like this one, Yavin Four, when I was younger. Of course, I suppose I spent just as much time on Coruscant too, my parents live there. It doesn't look much like this though, More metal." The man bit his lip, realizing that he had begun to ramble.

Laura turned to face him, curious. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Coruscant is all one big city. From orbit, it's mostly just black and gray, with a lot of lights running throughout. It's still quite a sight, though, especially if you get up close. The cityscape is really something, and at dawn all of the towers light up beautifully. I still prefer more natural planets, though. The sheer crush of activity on a world like Coruscant can be overwhelming sometimes."

"The entire planet is covered by a city?" Laura questioned, amazement creeping into her soft features. "That's incredible. It must have taken thousands of years to cover encompass an entire world."

Jacen smiled. "Tens of thousands actually, at the very least. No one's really certain exactly how old Coruscant is, but it's been the galactic capital for twenty five thousand years, and it was nearly as crowded back then."

"Amazing." Laura cleared away a few strands of brown hair that had fallen across her face and grinned dreamily. "I'd love to see a place like that. There isn't any world like that in this galaxy, at least not any that I've heard of."

"I'd like to show it to you. Of course, I'd just like to see it again at all, myself. It seems like years since I've been there, or any place really familiar for that matter. Then again, I suppose it isn't going to change any time soon."

Suddenly, an unheralded burst of vision flashed through Jacen's mind; a might globe of metal, wreathed with flickering embers and pockmarked with thousands of roiling craters of black; his mother, older, as she should have been, her faced stained with tears; his brother Anakin, bloody and engulfed in a terrible, burning aura; the black, nightmare mask that his grandfather had born most of his life; a towering monolith, carved against the darkened sky; the face of Aayla Secura, her eyes cold and shadowed. The images flowed together in a stream of overwhelming sensation, until the jedi could see nothing but an icy torrent swiftly rising inside of his skull, drowning out all conscious thought…

"Jacen? Are you all right?"

The man felt the warmth of a hand on his shoulder, and abruptly the vision evaporated, leaving only the empty hallway and the viewport on which he was leaning, breathing heavily. Shaking his head from side to side to clear it, Jacen regained his bearings, and noticed that the young ensign he had been talking with was now standing less than a meter away, her arm on his, a concerned look on her face. A warming sensation spread across Jacen's face and he stepped back nervously, allowing Laura's hand to slip away.

"I'm fine," he said at last, both trying to make sense of what had just occurred and attempting to put it out of his mind. "I'm just a bit tired."

Laura knew little about the Force or the Jedi beyond the fact that Jacen had mentioned that he was one and possessed certain abilities that most humans did not, but he could sense that she knew that there was more to his disorientation than simple weariness. She was anything if not perceptive, and Jacen had no doubt that she might begin to make the connection eventually if allowed to do so. Analyzing the recent visions and sensations he had been experiencing of late too deeply was not something the jedi felt he was ready for, especially not if prompted to do so by another.

"So, where are you from?"

Laura frowned, evidently noting the hasty change of subject, but she replied nonetheless. "A little city called Portland, Maine. It's on Earth. The human homeworld… well, in this galaxy, at least. I don't suppose that there's a place by the same name where you're from?"

Jacen shook his head. "If there is, I've never heard of it. Of course, that doesn't mean that it doesn't exist. There are still thousands of unexplored star systems out there, and our historians really don't know where humanity came from before it started colonizing planets like Coruscant. And if a parallel world did exist somewhere, we probably wouldn't call it the same thing. Earth is a rather… odd name."

Laura smirked. "You're not the first to make that comment. Even after hundreds of years of interstellar contact and civilization, I still run into the occasional Andorian or Ferengi who makes fun of the name. And they do have a point, naming one's home after dirt doesn't really do it much justice, especially in our case. You know, I've visited a fair number of planets since I joined Starfleet, and they're all quite amazing in their own way, but I've never encountered one as diverse or beautiful as Earth. Even just in my hometown. I've never felt as peaceful as I do when I'm sitting on the beach there at sunset, the water lit by the last rays of sunlight, the waves gentle lapping the breakers and soft sand."

The young woman trailed off, her smile replaced by a look of profound loss. She turned back to the viewport and gently placed a palm on its cool surface, Bajor's soft glow glinting in her eyes. "I suppose I'll never be able to sit on that sand again. There were several big power stations near Portland, and it would have been one of the first targets of the invasion. And even if it wasn't… well, I doubt that any place there is the same anymore."

"I'm sorry," Jacen began hurriedly, his shoulders drooping noticeably. "I didn't mean to…"

"No, it's all right. This is just something we all have to live with." She looked back at Jacen and tried to banish the shadows from her face. "I can't really say I've come to terms with it, or ever will, but I've lost too much to be consumed by each memory and each needless death. We all have. You have too, I guess. All we can really do is appreciate what we still have left."

Jacen stared back at the woman for a long time, no longer embarrassed by the reddening of his cheeks. At last, he nodded and smiled back. "I suppose you're right."

_What's going on?_

Darkness enclosed on all sides. There was no light, no substance, no sound, no motion. She floated upon the null. And yet, there was something out there, far beyond reach. Indistinct, a specter of a specter, a faint crackle in the back of the mind. Slowly, the sensation grew, blocking out memories and scattered thoughts that vainly tried to impose themselves on the empty plane. Then, it became a whisper. Many whispers.

"At last…" Faint, almost imperceptible.

_Who are you?_

"Major?" Stronger, a male voice, confident.

_Where am I? _

"Answer me, Kira." Another male voice, kind and concerned

_What has happened?_

"Come on, Nerys. Wake up." Yet another, desperate, helpless, loving.

_Where are you?_

"That's it, my daughter. Awaken." A female voice this time, wise and patient.

_Why won't you answer?_

"There, you see? Even a Bajoran can do it eventually." A deeper tone, cruel and mocking.

There were shapes now, fleeting images. Circles… no, faces. Each was different, each was speaking. They were all so strange, pale and distant, but she knew them. Benjamin Sisko; leader, friend; willingly lost to the void for the good of all. Bareil Antos; friend, lover; torn away by the injustice of the world. Odo; lover, comrade; separated by the bonds of duty and family. Kai Opaka; comrade, mother, role model; exiled by fate, so far away. Gul Dukat; monster, madman, motivation; destroyed, like so many others.

They were all part of her.

They were all gone.

_What is this?_

"Hurry up, Major. We haven't got all day."

More shapes. Disks. There was the gentle orb of home. There, the vaulted arms of Deep Space Nine. Then, other things. Sacred icons. Rank insignia. Morning rations. A sleeping child.

_Why are you showing me these things? _

"You disappoint me, Nerys. You were far more clever once."

There, beyond all the others, there was another shape. Growing, covering everything else. A claw? A hand? A mouth?

In its shadow, another image appeared like a beacon shrouded in fog. The Celestial Temple, the Bajoran Wormhole. A shimmering, energetic orb set like a jewel in space. It was the gateway to the Prophets, the protectors of her people. Living gods who had always guided and empowered her. They were the avatars of her very being; all that she was, soldier, officer, lover, friend, stemmed from their distant, all-knowing touch.

Then, in an instant, all of it was consumed by the shapeless maw. All that she was vanished into the blackness. She was alone. And yet, the chorus of whispers grew ever louder, ever clearer, ever more unified.

_What do you want from me?_

"Now, now Kira. All in good time."

The voice was familiar. It sounded the same as she remembered, smooth and confident. But it was not calming. There was no balm in the words, only cold fingers of ice and darkness. They slashed at her, tearing soundlessly into her flesh, spearing her chest with invisible barbs. But there was no pain, no blood, not even any release. She looked down, as if seeing her body for the first time. There, carved into her slender torso, was a gaping, ragged gash that pierced skin and bone, leaving her most vital of organs laid bear to the deep.

And yet, she saw no heart. There was only a blank space, as empty as the limitless chasm all around her.

_I am dead. I must be dead. _

"Yes."

_Then why are you here? Why do you not give me peace?_

"Peace? Silly girl, why should there be peace?"

_The holy writings said… _

"Holy?" This voice was new. Clearer than the rest. Penetrating. "There is nothing holy about this place. As you said, you are dead; there is only death here."

_Then why can I still hear you? _

"Death is not quiet, not this death. A silent passing would not serve."

_Serve?_

"Why, yes. Surely you did not think was for your amusement. No, no. You must fulfill your purpose before the fading is complete."

_My purpose?_

"In good time. When the time comes, you will act as needed."

_But I am dead…_

A sharp laugh echoed from nowhere at all. "You will find soon enough, Nerys, that in your world and mine, the dead can do a great many things."

Upon a medical bed within the depths of the Mon Calamari warship, a limp, bandaged form quivered to life, thrashed momentarily beneath sterile coverings, and then collapsed back into motionlessness once more. Had its lips not been sealed by a healing brace, the spasm would have been a scream.


	37. Chapter Fifty Five

**Part Four: Conflagration**

Chapter Fifty Five

High Charity. Forged in ages long past by labors that exhausted whole worlds, the space station was an engineering triumph, a giant even amongst the leviathans that the Holy Covenant navigated through the stars. Once a lifeless moon, it had been painstakingly crafted and augmented until only the barest shell of the body remained recognizable. A mighty pylon extended kilometers into space from one end, bearing a multitude of spires and lattices upon which whole armadas could roost. The half that still bore the ancient moon's shape was encrusted with monolithic juts of sculpted metal and precisely engineered entry chasms that cut deep into the station's hollow interior, disgorging eerie, crystalline light into the frozen deep of space.

Propelled through space by colossal slipspace channels etched into its outer surface, the titan had alighted in orbit around Joyous Exultation, the Covenant colony world closest to the space which humanity occupied. Though the domain of the holy empire encompassed a vast number of stars and worlds throughout the heavens, the attentions of Covenant armada had been focused on that distant galactic arm for decades, and thus High Charity and the prefects it bore had lingered close by as well, orchestrating the prophesized extermination of the mammalian species and inspiring the limitless Covenant hordes with its presence. The war had gone on far longer than any of the Prophets had predicted, and human's ingenuity and persistence in the face of overwhelming odds never seemed to waver, but there had never been any real danger to any of the Covenant's inhabited worlds, much less its fortress capital.

Then, when their final victory had seemed at hand, all that had changed.

Clustered around the space station like a school of predatory fish, hundreds of warships of every size and class waited. They had been summoned from every corner of the empire and every probing campaign into human space. There assembled were the Covenant's greatest warriors and commanders, their mightiest carriers and most prolific battleships. Such a gathering of force had been seen only a few times in the Covenant Hegemony's long history, and only when the High Council perceived a truly fatal threat. This assembly was no different; the specter of doubt hung over every ship and warrior's heart.

Deau 'Mefasee looked out upon the mighty city that formed the heart of High Charity and sighed wearily. In the shadow of a mighty Forerunner relic, a majestic, triangular spire that stretched from the center of the metropolis towards the high, domed ceiling, millions of thinking beings of more than half a dozen species went about their varied works. All labored, in one way or another, for the Prophets and noble Sangheili who ruled from the temples and halls that were suspended along the walls of the great enclosed city.

Only a few cycles earlier, 'Mefasee would have taken great pride in standing where she did, on the edge of one of the vast open walkways that connected the various structures of High Charity's governmental citadel, but a few strides from the assemblage hall of the High Council and the Hierarchs themselves. After all, she was but a transport pilot with no connections or accolades to her name, and more than that, a female. To stand there as anything more than a faceless member of some zealous mob screaming for the damnation of a heretic or laying praises upon the Prophets was a great honor.

Now, though, she could not feel any appreciation for her position.

Savage laughter sounded from behind her. A pair of brutish Jiralhanae lumbered past down the wide, sculpted causeway on which 'Mefasee stood, swinging well-worn blades about carelessly as they rumbled with mirth about some joke or brutal tale. They were nearly three meters in height, and easily more massive than the most muscular Sangheili. Their bodies, masses of scaly, gray skin and matted hair were almost naked save for bandoliers of ammunition, simple helms, and odd hanging trinkets of their tribe. Above rows of tusk-like teeth, beady red eyes set in simian faces raked the Sangheili with barely restrained contempt.

Deau 'Mefasee had always disliked the violent, insular creatures, as all of her species did, but they had the favor of the Prophets, and despite the relative youth of their race within the Covenant's fold, they were quickly filling every role that the Sangheili had once held alone. The High Prophet of Truth even kept a cadre of the animals for his personal use. Naturally, this had bred hostility between the two sects, who perceived each other as rivals for the Prophet's attentions, but beyond a few isolated squabbles, the situation had never escalated. The Jiralhanae knew their place; the Sangheili were second in the Holy Covenant, as they had been since its inception.

But then she had met Teno 'Falanamee. In hurried, secret council with the Supreme Commander, with only the two Unggoy under her command in audience, she had heard what could only be described as the highest heresy imaginable. He had told her of a plot by the Jiralhanae to completely usurp the place of the Sangheili, and cast them from the holy embrace of the Covenant. This, at least, she might believe. The savage creatures were undeniably ambitious.

But there had been more. The mighty warrior, honored tool of the empire and hero of a dozen campaigns, had told her that this plot bore the blessing of the Prophets themselves.

The pilot should have reported the heresy immediately after 'Falanamee had released her. Every fiber of her being, an entire life of worshiping the Prophets as the anchors of civilization and the shepherds of paradise, told her that what she had herd was a lie, and that the Supreme Commander's mind had been corrupted by some blow or secret poison. And yet, she had not told a soul. Three things stayed her tongue.

First, it would be her word against his. If he denied the accusation to any authority she might approach, doubt might be cast upon him, but the effort would most likely cost 'Mefasee her life. Nevertheless, if she followed dogma, such a sacrifice was her holy duty, and it would earn her a place in paradise with the Forerunners.

Second, though 'Falanamee had been vague about the method by which he had learned of this plot, as she mulled over what he had related, many parts of it did seem to make sense. The Jiralhanae were ever more prominent throughout the fleet, and Prophets and their pet brutes were oddly close. Some said that the Hierarchs valued the advice of the white-haired Jiralhanae chieftain Tartarus more than the wisdom of the Sangheili who sat upon the High Council. Then, there were the string of mysterious disappearances, councilors lost on routine pilgrimages to Forerunner monuments, unexplained explosions on the Sangheili homeworld. Still, none of it proved open betrayal, much less collusion by the leaders of the Covenant itself.

It had been the third reason that had kept her silent. Though his motives and experience with the alleged plot were still unclear, it was obvious that 'Falanamee wanted what he knew kept secret, and for reasons beyond mere self-preservation. It would have been simple for him to dispose of a handful of lowly support personnel; the Fleet Master have issued false transfer orders and had Cakap, Migaw, and she cast into a reprocessing conduit. Few would even notice the absence, much less question it.

Instead, he had spared them, and entrusted 'Mefasee with knowledge that might imperil everything he hoped to accomplish. He had given her a chance. An opportunity to help save her people from a threat she had scarcely ever dreamed of. Whether or not the Prophet's intent to break their ancient pact was real or the delusion of a wounded soldier, 'Falanamee's simple show of faith in her of all the Sangheili he could have approached had been enough to amend her to him. Warrior or not, she was honor-bound to reciprocate the act with her allegiance. For the moment, at least.

It was a better fate than being cut into pieces or strewn into space as a fountain of ionized particles, she told herself wearily. Of course, if the Supreme Commander's heresy was detected, she'd find that road eventually anyways.

The pilot turned away from the magnificent view below and focused her attention on the elevated foyer that lead into the High Council's convocation chamber. Hulking Sangheili warriors in the elaborate red and orange armor of the Hierarchs' Honor Guard flanked the triumphal path, and packs of elite, heavily armored soldiers patrolled ancillary balconies and gravity lift pads. The holy court was in session.

Since attaching her to his personal staff, which had been completed depopulated during the engagement around the human world, and transferring to High Charity from the _August Judgment_ more than two days previously, Teno 'Falanamee had been within the hallowed halls of the High Prophets almost constantly. With him were the most renown warriors from every sector of the Covenant; the Prophets had been quick to assemble the cream of the Armada in the face of the new threat.

They were afraid, 'Mefasee comprehended suddenly. The Prophets were actually afraid. Somehow, the realization disturbed her more than anything she had heard from the Supreme Commander.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"I come with news, high ones."

Debate within the council chambers quieted. Seated in ranks upon the terraced rises that lined each side of the hall, Sangheili on one and Prophets on the other, dozens of immaculately dressed councilors inspected the lone red-armored major as he made his way up the central concourse, careful to keep his head lowered in supplication. A crowd of esteemed warriors parted for the soldier, grateful for a pause in the tedious debate that had consumed the grand chamber before his arrival. The major did his best to resist honoring each of them as he passed; there were a few in attendance who demanded recognition even before the Fleet Masters, Blessed Zealots, and Supreme Commanders.

At last, the soldier mounted the low speaking dais near the head of the vaulted chamber and dropped to his knees, touching armored helm against the polished floor.

Before him, positioned in a raised arena that was somewhat removed from the rest of the room, were seated the three most powerful beings in the known universe. They were the Hierarchs, ordained by the gods themselves to deliver the message of the sacred prophesies onto the beings of the galaxy. They ruled their race, and half dozen others, with honeyed words, inspiring sermons, and merciless judgments. They were the Supreme Triad. The High Prophets.

The three regarded the Sangheili soldier before them a moment before speaking. Then one, seated upon an elegant and deviously armed levitating throne like his cohorts, floated forward a fraction, causing the gilding of his pointed crown and wing-like epaulets to glimmer in the ghostly illumination that pervaded the room. He raised one willowy hand and made a lazy sweeping gesture. This was the Prophet of Regret.

"You may continue."

The major rose. "Excellencies, elements from the fleet of Immaculate Foresight have arrived in orbit. Their commander reports that his force has just received word that the staging yards of his fleet around Distant Morning have been attacked and their defensive forces routed. He intends to gather what ships remain at his disposal and retake the system."

A murmur echoed through the assembly. Distant Morning was a jumping-off point for engagements throughout most of human space. It boasted three large and heavily armed docking facilities, and a perimeter fleet of at least a dozen capital ships.

One of the other Hierarchs moved forward. "Was the composition of the invading force relayed?" This was the Prophet of Mercy, an ancient even among his long-lived brethren. His bulbous head drooped upon its long neck and his skin was pale and flaky, but within his large eyes burned a passion and zeal undiminished by age.

"The telemetry of an observer drone that was positioned within the system indicates a group of three of the enemy's blade-ships, Excellency. The device recorded well into the engagement with the vanguard fleet before it was ordered away. Of the fourteen cruisers and carriers that were stationed there, only five remained as of last contact. No enemy casualties were detected."

Another murmur.

The major did his best to remain calm as the rulers around him became increasingly agitated. "The commander of Immaculate Foresight has rallied a full battle group about his battleship and has vowed to lay the intruders low for their infractions against the Holy Covenant."

"Tell the commander to hold," a reedy voice commanded, silencing all whispered conversations. The final member of the triad moved forward, fixing the Sangheili firmly in his piercing gaze. This was the Prophet of Truth, highest of the high. Though Mercy might have been more pious and Regret more aggressive, Truth was the unspoken leader of the three. His sheer force of will was unequalled, and his judgments were rarely challenged.

"We cannot afford to divide our forces until a stratagem has been devised for combating these invaders. I will not allow an entire battle group to destroy itself blindly for a system that is already lost. The commander will consolidate his forces here, and await further instructions."

Once he was sure that the High prophet had finished relaying his order, the major supplicated himself once more and then moved from the chamber with all the speed that dignity allowed. Truth's edict was time-sensitive, and the major knew all to well what would happen to him if the message arrived after the fleet master had already departed.

It did not take long for the suspended debate to renew after the messenger had left.

"Forgive my presumption, Excellency, but we must go on the offensive eventually. We cannot allow the warriors who fell during the incursion at the cleansed human fortress planet go unavenged, or stand idle as these attackers lay siege to our worlds." The speaker was Xytan 'Jar Wattinree, Admiral of the Holy Covenant Empire and Regent Command of the Combined Fleet of Righteous Purpose. He stood head and shoulders above the other officers who were assembled in the hall, and practically radiated physical strength and martial ability. "Their weapons are powerful, but we are more numerous, and our warriors will not submit to their assault. No foe has been able to withstand the might of the Covenant in our history, and this threat shall be crushed like all the others. The blessing of the gods flows through your words, and their strength flows through the Sangheili. We cannot lose if only we stand."

Agreement rippled through his fellow soldiers and the Sangheili councilors, but not all of them seemed convinced.

"We have not yet established where these vessels have come from, or what their intent is," an elder Ship Master near the back of the crowd put in. "Their technology is like that of the ancients. Perhaps they are their emissaries. We should at least attempt to establish communications with them. If even the slightest possibility exists that they have been sent by the Forerunners…"

"Why would emissaries of the gods devastate our fleets and set fire to our worlds?" another Ship Master demanded angrily.

The elder glared at the other. "The Flood are creations of the ancients, are they not? The hand of the Forerunners is not always gentle one. Perhaps this is another test."

Several Sangheili growled at the mention of the insidious parasites. Though inspection of certain Forerunner artifacts had unleashed outbreaks of the adaptive, intelligent pestilence, many could not believe that the Forerunners could have created such a sickness. The debate had little bearing on the trial that faced them all now, but the meeting had revealed more and more that dispute was rife throughout the Covenant leadership, even within the ranks of the Sangheili themselves.

The chamber began to devolve into a shouting match. Councilors screamed at one another across the aisle. Warriors found their hands searching for weapons. From the shadows, Jiralhanae guards and chieftains looked on in silence, relishing the discord.

"Enough!" Truth's voice boomed forth once again, and quiet descended immediately. None dared defy the High Prophet, least of all when his orders were tinged with anger.

"I will hear no more talk of this threat being thrust upon us by the gods. Such banter is heresy. These vessels come not from the heavenly plane, but from the bosom of an enemy we know all too well."

He tapped a control on his metallic armrest, and the center of the chamber shimmered to life with a large bubble of holographic light.

"This message was transmitted to one of the vessels that attempted to reinforce our armada when it was first beset by the intruders."

The swirling vortex of light rapidly resolved into a 2D screen, modified by the holographic projector so that it could be seen clearly from every corner of the room. Tinged slightly be bluish static, the face of a human in flimsy, dark raiment appeared, and it began to speak, filling the council chamber with unintelligible words. Sounds of apprehension and dismay emanated from the ranks of the both the Prophets and Sangheili.

"The tongue the creature speaks is not like that used by others of their species, and our translation Oracles have not yet been able to decipher the meaning of the message, but it is plain that the being is a human. The ship that received and retransmitted this signal was able to verify that it did indeed come from one of the blade-ships before it attacked the intruders and was destroyed."

For a few moments, no one in the assembly was able to respond to the revelation. The very idea that accursed humanity could harness technology that surpassed that of the Covenant had once been an unthinkable notion; how could this have changed so swiftly? Certainly, the vermin were adaptive and stubborn, but could they have really co-opted and improved weaponry stolen from the holy empire to such an extent? They had endowed some of their warriors, the hated, green-armored Demons, with thieved strength, but constructing a fleet of warships so vastly improved was an entirely dissimilar feat. Had they discovered and plundered a Forerunner relic of unprecedented power? Could the entire war have been a bizarre rouse, with the humans only now showing their true power?

"Why have you only showed us this now, High Prophet?" a voice questioned from the thick of the Sangheili warriors. Several parted to reveal a gold-helmed Fleet Master staring at the Hierarchs intently. "Surely this message did not just reach your notice. It was been days since our defeat at the human fortress world. Such intelligence is relevant to the matter we now discuss, is it not?"

Truth stared at the warrior coolly for a breath without responding, but he did not betray any outward signs of emotion. "My brothers and I required time to consult the holy texts and see if they spoke of the humans' involvement in this threat. It would have been imprudent to rashly bring this to public notice before its ramifications could be studied."

"And what did the texts say, Excellency?" the Ship Master pressed. A new wave of whispers washed over the crowd; such frank questioning of a Prophet's motives, much less the motives of one of the Hierarchs themselves, was almost unheard of.

"There is no specific mention of the creatures that drive the war machines," Truth replied without pausing, and then turned his attention to the rest of the assembly, raising his graceful hands to draw their notice. "Our original interpretation of the holy texts, as High Prophet Mercy's sermon at the dawning of this invasion related, held firm. All that is stated within them is that a dark cloud will vie to consume our Holy Covenant, and that we shall rally together as in ancient strife to overcome it. Then nothing will stand in the way of our sacred duty to cleanse the galaxy until the impending arrival of the Great Journey. Our victory is preordained in this trial, and all we need do is find the right path to salvation. The gods have blessed our crusade."

The High prophet's keen, orb-like eyes drifted back onto the questioning warrior. "And truly, honored Fleet Master, what does it matter who we fight now? The remains of their warships will be cast into the depths of space and their homeworlds burned for their crimes against us, regardless of what beings inhabit them. If the threat and the human infestation are one in the same, then our task is all the more glorious. I presume this revelation does not diminish your desire for revenge against those who surprised and annihilated your fleet. You still wish a new command to hunt down the heretical invaders, I hope? You, like all the commanders here, are far too valued an instrument to be dulled by doubt."

All eyes turned once again to the Fleet Master. Some had only now realized that the speaker was the former commander and sole survivor of the _Ascendant Justice_, mighty flagship of the fleet of Particular Justice. Rumors of his valiant defense of the Prophet who had been the first target of the new enemy and miraculous survival of the engagement, some said by divine intervention, had only increased the acclaim that the esteemed Sangheili held amongst his kin. Few were still surprised at the audacity of the display now.

For all his will, however, the warrior seemed to still know his place. "You speak with wisdom, High Prophet. I meant no disrespect by my inquiry."

Truth's thin lips drew back into a tight smile. "Of course not. Only simple soldiers follow orders mindlessly. It is the job of leaders to think and question, so as to better serve the great crusade to the fullest of their ability."

The High Prophet waved his hand and the hologram above evaporated. He then directed a subtle nod at Regret, who came forward again.

"My bothers and I must consider all that has been said today, as must you all. We shall resume this session in half a unit, at which time the method of the invader's absolute destruction will be determined."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The great council chambers stood almost empty. Councilors had long since made their way back to the great city below and the Sangheili commanders shuttled back to their waiting ships. Even Regret and Mercy had retired to their private quarters, leaving only Truth in the hallowed space. Brushing the fleshy protrusions of his chin pensively, he sat in silence, reflecting upon the projection of a great, floating ring, similar to one that adorned the face of his crown. Its perimeter danced with flickering Forerunner hieroglyphics, and his great eyes followed each text strand with rapt fascination, as if he could see more in them that simple geometric shapes and symbols.

Deep, guttural breath abruptly sounded from behind the Prophet's hovering throne, and Truth dismissed the holographic ring with a flick of his wrist, then turned to face the new arrival.

Before him kneeled Tartarus, chieftain of all Jiralhanae clans. Massive for even those of his mighty species, the creature's slivery-white coat covered muscles and battle scars that might have given a titanic Lekgolo pause. Rather than a crimson plasma rifle or bladed grenade launcher, the favored weapons of the Jiralhanae shock trooper, the chieftain clutched in one fist the legendary Fist of Rukt, a crackling, electromagnetic battle hammer nearly as tall as he. Tartarus shunned any form of armor or personal shielding, and rather than a metal helm, a prominent mohawk of white hair dominated his scalp.

Truth admired his impressive servant for a moment. The hulking brute could best half a dozen skilled Sangheili warriors in close combat at once. Behind his bloodshot eyes simmered a savage intellect comparable with some of the finest tactical minds in the Covenant armada. He commanded uncounted legions of the best soldiers in the galaxy. Best of all, though, the Jiralhanae was absolutely loyal.

"Rise, Tartarus, and come forward. I have a task for you."

The beast reassumed his full, impressive height and stalked forward, planting the handle of his mighty weapon against the polished deck and staring into his master's eyes with supreme focus. Most Prophets found the Jiralhanae custom unnerving, but the High Prophet had grown to appreciate it. Only a creature that could look upon him with such bald openness could truly be trusted.

"You know of the Fleet Master Teno 'Falanamee?"

Tartarus gave a sign of recognition.

"I want you to watch him. Send your most trusted agents to observe his actions, and record all he does outside of this chamber. A great struggle is coming, and I cannot have dissent splitting our ranks. Not yet."

"I shall do as you command."

The ghost of a smile passed over Truth's visage. "I detect doubt in your words."

Tartarus did not blanch at the suggestion, and his stare remained resolute. "Why not have me kill the Sangheili now? If he is a threat to your designs, he should not be allowed to live."

"He yet has a purpose to serve. In any event, he is too prominent and renowned to slay openly. His disposal will have to be more… subtle." The Prophet nodded to himself slowly. "Rest assured, Tartarus, I will not any being disrupt the genesis of a new Covenant and the continuation of our holy quest. If you wish it, when the time comes, you will be the one to take this commander's life."

Tartarus bore his sharpened tusks in satisfaction. "He will be a great challenge."

Truth looked into the Jiralhanae's eyes a moment longer, and then began to turn his throne away, making a dismissive gesture. "Go now. I must meet with the master of the _August Judgment_. Evidently, he wishes to speak with me of our friend Fleet Master, and his words may hold some value."

Silently, Tartarus offered a nod of supplication and stalked out of the burnished chamber, his brutal features fixed with primal focus.


	38. Chapter Fifty Six

Chapter Fifty Six

Praetor Hiren scanned the main chamber of the Romulan Senate in silence, his bony hands folded beneath his chin. The high, circular space held within its walls the mind and soul of the Romulan Star Empire, the secretive power that had held a place of almost unrivaled martial strength within known reaches of the galaxy for centuries before the United Federation of Planet's founding. Beneath elegant pillars and the giant gilded bird of prey that served as the assembly's avatar, senators and military leaders forever debated, squabbling over every detail of every topic from foreign espionage to the vagaries of resource allocation. It was a tedious and often pointless affair, the praetor reflected, but Romulans had great patience for such things, and the greatest of his species were gathered there to ensure that the rest of the populace need never be diminished by ineffective leadership. He could always count on some verse of wisdom or fortuitous fragment of intelligence from one of the wizened, angular faces seated before him.

Or, at least, that was how things had once been. Now, many of those familiar faces were gone, their places in the ranks of low benches left empty like open wounds.

"…most recent reports from the Home Guard units stationed in the Dagenor and Pakli Segments indicate that the surviving elements of the invasion force have lost any semblance of cohesion, and are being swiftly exterminated. It appears that destroying the coordinating intelligence hidden in the OM2 dilithium mine on Remus has had the desired effect on the enemy, as the Tal Shiar predicted."

Senator Cadea spoke with his characteristic clarity and purpose, but it was obvious to Hiren that the politician was distracted. As one of the older members of the assembly and a former admiral of the Romulan star fleet, Cadea had seen his share of conflicts, and this newest one was plainly bringing back old memories. This battle, however, was one quite unlike any the empire had experienced in its history; even the savage incursions of the Dominion only a few years previous had never struck so at the hearts of the Romulan people.

"Nevertheless, there is still some concern within the Home Guard and our intelligence services that the invaders might yet reassert themselves. I need not remind this assembly of the incident in the Unroth system, in which a similar brain creature was able to regenerate itself and resumed a campaign with its surviving minions after colonists had been allowed to return to their cities. The combat legions on Remus were quite thorough with their removal of the beast, but until the precise means by which it communicates and propagates itself are determined, there is still a threat."

"I have been briefed of these developments, Senator," Hiren said wearily. "We all have. Do you have anything new to raise in regards to the matter?"

"Yes, Praetor," Cadea replied, undaunted by the weariness of his superior's tone. "The forces on Remus are stepping up their sweeps of the caverns and shafts surrounding the one where this intellect was located to ensure that it does not reassert itself, but they are being impeded by the creatures that have managed to find their way into the deeper underground networks. Even without a central consciousness, many are still fierce fighters in close quarters, and the casualties among our patrols are beginning to mount. The only way to retain the operation's viability is to push and hold back the beasts that are harassing our searchers. For that, more soldiers are required."

"I realize that our active infantry units are stretched thin as it is, but I believe that the force deployed in the Pakli Segment can be reassigned to the planet's mines without compromising the home system's status significantly."

"What?"

The cry rang out from one of the other delegates, and Hiren recognized the voice even before a senator rose from the ranks of her point-eared comrades. It was the stately Tal'aura, who represented the Pakli Segment, as well as the interests of a wide variety of social organizations throughout the empire. Hers was one of the provinces of Romulus that had borne the brunt of the incursion that had reached the soil of their homeworld less than a standard month previously, and still crawled with vestiges of the foreign horde. Though popular with the people, she possessed a contrary and stubborn nature which cause most of her colleagues see her in a rather dim light; it was wholly unsurprising that she would be the one to reignite debate in the somber chamber. The fact that her own constituents would be directly affected by the matter at hand made her outburst all the more expected.

"You would have us leave Pakli to those vermin? You cannot seriously suggest that we allow the invaders to continue to despoil Romulus, even as the hour of their extermination is at hand!"

"Please, Senator, this will only be a temporary redeployment." Despite his relative seniority, Cadea was obviously unnerved by the firebrand of a woman who opposed him. Nevertheless, he had apparently anticipated such a rebuke. "The Fourth Battle Fleet is scheduled to return to Romulus for repair within a week. When they arrive, some of their soldiers can be dispatched to continue cleanup operations in the segment. Besides, the entire force need not be moved to Remus; more than enough infantry can be left behind to defend Pakli's major cities."

"And what of those who live outside the larger population centers?" Tal'aura growled. "Millions of Romulan citizens are still waiting in refugee camps across the system, yearning to return to what is left of their homes, and there are still pockets of survivors stranded in the Kesd'a Hills district. Who knows how many more could be devoured by these things if they are abandoned for another week?"

Cadea shook his head. "The risk posed by the enemy coordinator is too great to be ignored. Any further loss of civilian life is highly regrettable, but if the beasts that still lurk en mass in Romulus' wilds regain a central drive after the general populace has returned, countless more will perish. This is the only prudent course of action, and even one of your… limited experiences should be able to recognize that."

Inwardly, Praetor Hiren sighed. Cadea was definitely losing his tact, if he ever had any to begin with. Provoking Tal'aura, especially while she was in such a state, would bring productive discourse within the Senate to a grinding halt, but the senior senator simply didn't seem to care anymore.

The past three months had been hard on them all. When Romulan spies within the Federation first reported the arrival of the nameless, brutal menace that was now the consuming focus of their deliberations, Hiren and his associates had watched the situation unfold carefully, but they had done nothing to intervene, even when as they received hundreds of desperate distress calls over the Neutral Zone. It was not the Romulan way to rush blindly to face a threat, especially one so sudden and bizarre. The decision had been an unpopular one; the Federation and Empire had been allies only years before against the Dominion, and elements of both the military and the general population disliked the thought of abandoning them to the savage parasites. Still, the Romulan armada was still recovering from previous conflicts, and as the true scope of the threat became apparent, the Senate resolved to cloister behind the borders of the Empire. No power could break such a line easily, and certainly not mere animals, vicious and prolific as they were.

After a time, all communication with the Federation, and the spies still imbedded within it, was lost. The Star Empire waited. The Klingons lost their homeworld. The Star Empire looked on, and a few even cheered at the downfall of their longtime foes. The Cardassians, the Ferengi, the Tzenkethi: all were consumed. The Star Empire did nothing but install more listening posts along the long-quiet Neutral Zone. World after world was engulfed by the sickening ichor, but the Romulans were untouched. Perhaps, some among the Senate began to speculate, the invaders knew that they would be unable to assail the mighty Romulan war machine, and did not ever intend on trying. After all, much of the initial chaos upon the Federation and its allies had been sowed by mind-controlled traitors and hidden nests of assassins; surely, the keen eyes of the Tal Shiar and the ever vigilant Romulan Armada could not be infiltrated so easily. Some hardliners even began to say that the galactic crucible was a good thing, a clearing-out of the lesser species in preparation for an unprecedented era of expansion and power.

And for a few short days, Hiren had almost begun to believe that himself.

Then, within a single day, the Star Empire was pushed to the brink of oblivion. On inner colony worlds where no foe had ever laid foot, massive armies of armored, clawed monstrosities burst forth, sweeping up citizens and soldiers alike in a nightmarish wave. Thick, black slime, spewed from the creatures' living factories, crept across whole continents, consuming all native life and mutating them into new, twisted beasts of war. Squadron upon squadron of Romulan warbirds and battleships, each equipped with the finest cloaking devices in the galaxy and weaponry capable of laying waste to planetoids, were destroyed by a simultaneous onslaught of innumerable kamikaze ships. The enemy did not even employ the best of their thieved fleet; the bulk of the attacking force was made up of enslaved civilian vessels and science ships, loaded with volatile explosives and cast at the Romulan lines with utter abandonment.

In the confusion of that first week, a commandeered fleet had made its way to Romulus itself, and disgorged a terrible host upon the capital and its barren sister world of Remus. It was a testament to the skill and resolve of the soldiers of the armada that Hiren and most of his comrades had been spared at all. The invaders were eventually repelled from the home system, but the price in lives and war material had been catastrophic. Light-years away, a dozen worlds were still wracked with conflict, and a dozen more lay as burned ruins, scraped clean of life rather than allowed to live on as spawning grounds.

More egregious than all other losses, however, was the loss of Romulan pride. Despite all their preparations, their removal from the galaxy, their martial might, the invaders had effortlessly, almost contemptuously, brought them to their knees. They little better now than any of the other peoples of the galaxy, left adrift in a savage sea.

Praetor Hiren, seeing that Senator Tal'aura was about to launch into an enraged rebuke of Cadea, rose from his seat, drawing all attention to himself. "You wish me to push your proposal through for an immediate vote, do you not, Senator Cadea?"

"Yes, Praetor," the senator replied, mildly surprised.

"It is a prudent request, and I shall carry it. And let it be known that I favor the proposal. The security of Romulus is vital to the future of our people, and if sacrifices must be made to preserve it, then we would be cowards to balk at them."

The vote was conducted quickly, and resulted almost unanimously in favor of Cadea's proposal. Despite all that had befallen the empire under his leadership, Hiren still maintained support throughout the ruling body, and when he had made his opinion on the vote clear, there was no real doubt as to its outcome. Tal'aura fumed silently from her seat, but she knew better than to press the matter. Romulan politics was an inherently perilous business, and defying the Praetor in a time of war was tantamount to suicide.

Before the Senate could move on to other matters, the hand-carved double doors to one side of the domed room swung open and a young Romulan officer entered. His left eye was cloudy and dead, surrounded by the green-tinted slash of a rough, barely healed scar. He was no doubt fresh from combat; the Senate Guard had seen its share of the fighting in the last month.

"The ambassadors from the United Federation of Planets have arrived and await an audience."

Hiren grimaced. Several days ago, word had reached Romulus of a new message from Federation space, the first such communiqué since well before the invasion of Star Empire. Two facts about the news had caught the Praetor's notice: first, rather than a plea for aid or request for asylum, the captain who relayed the message indicated that it regarded the reformation of the alliance between the Federation and the Star Empire, and a campaign against the invaders. Second, Starfleet had actually dispatched a fully-operational warship to the edge of the Neutral Zone, in hopes of immediately beginning negotiations.

Some of Hiren's military advisors had suggested that they continue their platform of silence towards the rest of the galaxy, but others, shaken by recent events, had taken a more receptive stance, and Hiren had decided to side with them. If the invaders struck the Empire again, there was little chance that it could withstand the onslaught; any opportunity to change the course of the war had to be considered. Nevertheless, the Praetor doubted that any strategy that the Federation emissary might propose could be viable. The most current intelligence on the Federation and its allies showed a dwindling collection of ill-defended and far-removed worlds, little to no logistical capability, and a ragtag fleet that was both burdened with a mass of refugees and worn to breaking by ceaseless defeats and narrow escapes.

Still, he had dispatched a ship to the Neutral Zone with news that the Senate would agree to hear of this new plan, under the condition that it was delievered on Romulus itself. The captain of the vessel had agreed, and now it seemed that the Starfleet vessel arrived in near-record time.

As a murmur of curious conversation ran through the ranks of senators, Hiren bade the officer to allow the emissaries entry. With a nod, he exited, and was replaced a moment later by a trio of figures, flanked on either side by stony-faced Romulan guards.

As the group approached the center of the chamber, Hiren's eyes focused on the lead individual, an older, bald human male who moved with practiced presence and decorum. His lined face and tempered bearing triggered a burst of memory in the Praetor, and the Romulan's tight features loosened in surprise.

"Captain Jean-Luc Picard, of the USS _Enterprise_?"

"I'm flattered that you recognize me, Praetor Hiren," Picard responded, his voice calm and respectful.

"Your diplomatic talents and martial ability are quite well known within the Star Empire, Captain, or at least they were in years past. Unless our intelligence services are very much mistaken, though, you, your ship, and all of its crew disappeared more than seven years ago. And I do not doubt the veracity of our data on your past whereabouts."

Picard smiled. "And you should not. I have indeed been absent for the Alpha Quadrant for a very long time. The circumstances surrounding the displacement of myself and my crew are a complicated matter, but in the interests of mutual trust and disclosure, I would be more than happy to detail them for you and your intelligence agencies."

Hiren leaned back marginally, a look of bemusement playing across his face. "I look forward to it."

"Now, this body has been informed that you wish to negotiate in regards to an alliance between the Romulan Star Empire and the United Federation of Planets. I realize the necessity of keeping your intent vague in communiqué for risk of interception, but now that you are here, I believe that it is time for a full accounting of the Federation's intent."

Picard nodded. "Of course, Praetor. Let me begin by introducing my fellows."

He indicated to the figure to his left, a pale, human-like creature dressed in an immaculate Starfleet uniform similar to the Captain's. "This is Commander Data, my second-in-command for this envoy."

The name triggered another flash of memory, and Hiren recalled a classified document on the commander he had seen in his days of government service before ascending to its highest echelons. Data was a Soong-type android, reputedly one of the most advanced artificial intelligences in existence. Were circumstances different, he might have spent an entire fleet to acquire the specimen and the unique technology that was encased within its chassis.

When Data had nodded formally to the Praetor and the Senate, Picard turned to the being to his other side, one that Hiren was quite sure that he had never seen before. It was also humanoid in shape, but its polished golden casing, stiff, methodical movements, and muted, expressionless face were all distinctly inorganic. The device clasped a small, knob-encrusted box in its hands delicately. Hiren suspected that it was some sort of information storage medium, although it was unusually large and faceted for such a device. Still, it could not be overtly dangerous; his guards would have made sure of that before allowing it into the chamber.

"And I am See-Threepio, human-cyborg relations," the machine chirped eagerly, not waiting for the human's introduction. "I bid you greetings and salutations, Praetor Hiren and august senators of the Romulan Star Empire, on behalf of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, and my master, Princess Leia Organa."

Hiren frowned. "I am unfamiliar with the organization of which you speak. Do you mean of the alliance the Federation has created with the Klingon Empire? I had not expected that such a body would ordain royalty so quickly."

"The Alliance of which he speaks does not include the Federation," Picard explained, cutting in before See-Threepio could continue. The android seemed to deflate, despite the rigidity of his frame. "However, the two groups are affiliated nonetheless. Princess Organa has offered military support to the Federation and its allies against the Zerg, the invaders who have wrought so much destruction upon the galaxy these past few months."

The Zerg? Hiren wondered if the Federation had simply invented a name for the parasites, or whether they were privy to intelligence that had not reached Romulan ears.

"You mentioned in you communiqué that the Federation wished to acquire a renewed military compact with the Romulan people, Captain," Hiren said, putting aside his personal curiosity about Picard's odd companion. "Moreover, you indicated that there were plans underway for a counterassault against these… Zerg, as you call them. It is known to this assembly that your Starfleet and the Klingon Imperial Navy have been vastly diminished in strength over the course of this war, and that with your every loss, the enemy grows stronger. The armada of the Star Empire is mighty, even after numerous incursions, but we cannot risk spreading it thin to mount a counterattack now. To do so would leave our worlds bear to assault and corruption."

"It is undeniable that the repulsion and destruction of this menace is a necessity for the preservation of the Romulan people, but at this stage of the conflict, a direct military campaign would be suicidal. I do not see how the remnants of a handful of shattered fleets can supplement our armada sufficiently to lend such an effort the possibility of success. You must believe me, Captain, when I say that what has befallen the Federation is a great tragedy and injustice, but at this time, the Romulan Star Empire cannot afford to aid it militarily. The needs of my species must take precedence."

Hiren had expected very visible signs of anger, or at the very least disappointment, even from a diplomat as experienced as Picard, but the human showed no indication of offense or resignation. Instead, he listened to the Praetor's ultimatum calmly, and then asked See-Threepio for the device he carried.

"While I must admit that your assessment of the situation is largely correct, Praetor, there is a key aspect of our new campaign that you have overlooked, and understandably so. While Romulan assistance is crucial to the effort, the Federation does not expect the armada to form the core of our offensive force. You see, the aid the Alliance has provided to us is rather more significant than a few conventional warships or production facilities."

"What are you implying, Captain?"

Picard smiled again, and then held up the knobbed device, on which crystalline holographic projectors and data ports were clearly visible. "Perhaps it would be best if you saw it for yourselves."

----------------------------------------------

The jade-tinted globe that was the planet Coridan glinted gently in the radiance of its distant star. As one side of the world was cast into night by its inexorable rotation, the other basked in the glow of a new dawn. Wide oceans and forested mountain ranges caught the light and seemed to come to life. Fish swam, avians sang, tiny arboreal creatures emerged from their nightly hiding places. The only locales that remained quiet were the areas where nature no longer ruled: empty city streets, unlit high-rises, vacant mines and factories, and even these places could only seem peaceful under the morning sun.

As the planet moved its bulk further and darkness was drawn back further, a new site of activity was revealed, a mere speck upon the bosom of the world. There, nestled between an emerald sea and a scattering of isolated mountain peaks, a splotch of blackness lingered. But this was not a natural dark, the dark of nightly hunts and deep sleep. This dark was alien, life and death as one. This was the blackness of consumption. And it was spreading.

High above the globe, five vessels, tiny against the awakening mass, passed swiftly back from day back into night, their dim running lights and weary drives suddenly beacons away from the illumination of the far primary. When the continents and waterways below lost definition, the small group angled sharply away from their orbital trajectory, coming together in a loose formation and fixing as one on the only other significant landmark for hundreds of millions of kilometers; Coridan's single, lifeless moon.

The formation was made up of a motley collection of vessels from several eras and as many different worlds. Two bore the distinctive disk and nacelles of Federation craft, of which only one, a heavily patched-up _New Orleans_-class frigate, was of a design that had been produced in decades. The others were cumbersome transports or mining ships, one of an old Vulcan make, and another that could have come from any number of shipyards, a determination made impossible by the number of spare parts and home-brewed alterations that held its hull together. The last was an ancient Tellarite freighter that could, and very well might have been, a museum piece for most of its lifespan.

This was the last fleet that Coridan, loyal member of the United Federation of Planets for more than a century, could muster. Onboard those tired ships were packed a few thousand citizens, the only of their planet who now had a chance to escape the blackness that had seeded their world. As it had before hundreds of times in hundreds of systems across half of the galaxy, the lethal division had begun; a few, a lucky few would drift off into the void on their crowded steeds, refugees in their own country. The rest would serve as fodder for the ravening minions that all now knew as "the Zerg".

This time, however, the swarm seemed to be planning on an especially mighty brood, and it was not eager to allow even the smallest of morsels to escape its plate.

"There," the junior grade lieutenant in charge of the _New Orleans_-classes' active sensors reported nervously. "Emerging from that storm system above the Dussur Sea. I'm picking up strong life signs and heat signatures. A lot of them."

"Onscreen," acting captain Garis of the USS _Hobbes_ ordered. Unease was palpable in the Trill's voice. He become second-in-command of the battered ship only weeks before, after the previous officer to hold the position had been removed from duty due to extensive wounds he had sustained during an away mission to evacuate a scientific post that the Zerg had targeted for absorption. Now he had to lead the few remaining operable ships in the Coridan system away from the same tide; the _Hobbes_' commanding officer, a native of the now-doomed globe, had removed himself from duty out of fear of a conflict of interest. It was Starfleet's standing order to save all those who could be saved, and leave the rest; abandoning one's people, one's very family often enough, to the most terrible of deaths was not something every captain had been able to do over the last few months, and many a ship had been lost because of it.

A far view of the greenish world appeared before Garis. It showed one of the planet's larger bodies of water, a dim mass in the darkness. Faint whorls and staggered lines were etched above it; storm systems and cloud strata. For a moment, the man could discern no detail in the image, nothing of concern for the fleeing fleet. Then, something, the slightest trace of motion, caught his eye.

"Magnify."

The image complied, and in an instant the largest of the storm systems over the sea filled his viewscreen, rotating and undulating with cyclic winds and lashing precipitation, an occasional flash of static discharge arcing from one intemperate expanse of sky to next. As one of these lightning bolts tore through the distant atmosphere, a speck of matter, darker than the clouds at its back, appeared. It was soon followed by a dozen others like it. A hundred.

"Magnify," the Trill breathed again.

This new image brought him straight into the swarm of dots, but now they had obvious, horrifying form. Each was an egg-like sac of flesh and sinew that pulsed and flexed with each beating of the two clawed, bat-like wings that framed its form. The faces of the creatures were angular cones of serrated teeth, encircling a maw that hung ever open to the void into which it rose. These were the scourges, entities that embodied the mystery and terror that were part and parcel of their horde; like most Zerg, they had no need for oxygen, and could fly into the coldest depths of space unhindered. Further, though their wings could physically find no purchase in the emptiness, they moved nonetheless, and at a prodigious, overwhelming rate. What research had been spared for the few specimens captured intact had no explanation for their method of locomotion; it was as though sheer force of will, their own or that of a greater power, allowed them to bend the laws of reality itself.

And their speed was not the most sinister of their capabilities.

"Cut our speed to half impulse," Garis ordered at last. "I want us between the civilian ships and those creatures."

"Captain, the _Keep_ reports that she is unable to maintain her current speed," the comm officer reported from her station. "She is dropping to point four four impulse."

The Tellarite freighter was in no state to fly at all, Garis thought, almost angrily. It was a wonder it hadn't exploded from the strain already, and it very likely still could, especially if any external impact stressed its hull more than it already was. What made the situation worse was the fact that it was his most important charge; certainly, the ship only had a few hundred refugees onboard as opposed to the thousands on the other vessels, but it held other cargo. The real reason Starfleet had spared any ships at all for Coridan's evacuation was not humanitarian, but a strategic; the planet had once been a starship construction and dilithium mining nexus, and when both industries had dried up, a great deal of unused machinery and material was mothballed. Now the fleet was in desperate need of spare parts, and the _Keep_ was packed with crates and crates of them, swiftly culled from abandoned warehouses and vaults across the planet.

The _Hobbes_' acting captain momentarily wondered why the Federation hadn't devoted more manpower to recover such badly-needed assets, but he didn't have the time to dwell on what he lacked. The scourges were gaining on them quickly.

"Keep us behind that freighter! I don't care if we have to crawl to do it!"

The frigate began to slow, reverse thrusters and inertial dampeners cutting its forward momentum. The other ships rocketed past, holding their course towards the world's only moon.

"Bring us about!"

He glanced at his tactical officer, a Vulcan who looked positively serene standing at his weapons post. Garis wondered in passing if, deep down, the sentient's lack of outward emotions was just a façade. Surely, even they had to feel something when facing down oblivion.

"Prep all weapons systems for combat. I don't want a single one of those creatures to get past us, not as long as this hull still holds atmosphere and its phaser coils can siphon energy. Those ships have to get out of this system intact." He paused, eyes flitting over the nighttime globe that still filled the viewscreen. "Every last one of them."

The Vulcan nodded curtly. "Affirmative, sir."

"Fire as soon as they enter range."

Seconds later, lines of crimson energy arced around the frigate's curved bow and burst forth in a series of three short, compact beams. Each found its own target, and a trio of the flighted beasts disassociated into their component atoms. Twin photon torpedo launchers roared to life, and two more encapsulations of energy tore through the void, straight into the heart of the pursuing formation. They detonated without impacting any particular target, and rank upon rank of the creatures vanished forever.

"Twenty five confirmed destroyed," the tactical officer reported without a trace of satisfaction intruding upon his monotone. "The sensors detected at least one hundred and ten remaining."

"Sir, a few of them are accelerating away from the main group, past us and towards the civilian ships!"

"Keep us between the fleet and those creatures!" Garis ordered the helmsman. "Tactical, use the phasers to pick off the ones that are getting past us. Save the rest of our photons for the main group."

The _Hobbes_ wheeled about again in pursuit of the breakaway attackers, but not before lobbing another set of torpedoes from its tubes. Their discharge of energy tore through the cloud of hostiles again, but the majority emerged from the conflagration unscathed and surged forward all the faster.

A series of shift slashes with the frigate's phaser array were all that was required to keep the motley set of evac ships secure, but it had been forced to completely alter its firing vectors to accomplish the task; ships like the _New Orleans_-class were not intended to fight by themselves, and their blind spots were easily exploitable by even the dullest of foes.

"Sir, several of the creatures have broken from the main group. They're charging our rear shields."

"Brace for impact!"

Eight of the frontrunners, now flying almost parallel to the guardian vessel, abruptly folded their ominous wings and ploughed into the _Hobbes_' aft section. Shimmering shields intercepted the suicide projectiles well before they hit, but rather than disintegrate or bounce off, as normal organisms would, they exploded with terrifying force. The offensive mechanism of the scourge was just as supernatural as their interstellar flight; though employing sacrificial fodder was a common enough tactic among the swarm, rarely did their minions detonate with enough force to shake mountains. By all accounts, this ferocity was impossible; no living thing could contain within its organs a power that could rival phaser blasts upon release. And yet, the warship's shields still buckled and pulsed from the hit.

"Report!" the ship's CO demanded, recovered from the tremor that had swept his vessel.

"Aft shields are holding."

Another impact shook the bridge, and then another. An unused science station behind Garis exploded in a shower of sparks, and the bridge's red-tinted lights dimmed momentarily.

"Shields have dropped to eighty two percent, Captain. The rear structural integrity fields are beginning to fluctuate. We may have to reduce our speed in order to avoid a breach."

"No!" Garis shook his head. Slow now, and nothing could stop the deadly flock from swarming the civilian ships. Even now, some of the scourges were passing the _Hobbes_, making a run on the _Keep_, which was still lagging behind.

As a dozen of the beasts filled the corners of his viewscreen and another impact rocked the ship's shields, Garis suddenly realized that he wasn't going to survive this mission. It should have been obvious, he supposed, as soon as the Zerg decided to give chase. True, he could give the order to break off their running defense, to dump all power into the drives and surge to a point where his ship could find safely jump to warp. There was still time; scourges were powerful, but they still needed an overwhelming number of impacts to battered down the shields of a Starfleet warship, hits that could not be landed if he fled now.

Despite himself, Garis grinned.

"Lieutenant Commander Udak, how many photon torpedoes do we have left?"

"Three, sir," the Vulcan responded calmly.

"What would happen if they were programmed to detonate in their tubes simultaneously with an unrestrained warp core breach?"

Udak preformed a few calculations as other members of the bridge crew looked on, understanding dawning on each of their faces. "The resultant blast would annihilate everything within an eleven kilometer radius of the core."

Nodding slowly, Garis turned to his helmsman. "Do you think that you can put us right in the center of that formation, Ensign? Can you keep us there?"

The young human's face hardened, but he nodded resolutely. "Yes, sir."

The Trill smiled again. These engines, this crew, were far too good to be wasted on running. Silent for a moment, he turned to gaze at the swelling curve of Coridan's moon through the viewport, framed by a constellation of striking stars. As he traced the crisp, dark horizon, just the hint of the sun's light beyond it, he wished absently that he'd taken a poetry course during his time at Starfleet Academy. It'd have at least given him something profound to say.

He suppressed the thought. Perhaps some things were simply better left unsaid.

"Alright. Initiate core overload sequence, authorization…"

"Hold on, sir." The communications officer was suddenly back at her controls. "I'm picking up an incoming transmission from just beyond the lunar terminus. Audio only."

Garis peered at the viewscreen again. The constellation he had seen… was it moving?

"Patch it through."

The bridge's intercom crackled with static, but a voice emerged from it, loud, clear, and more than a little cocky.

"Looks like you boys have quite a pest problem. Hold tight; the exterminators are on their way."

The distant specks that Garis had thought were stars swelled, took on definition. As the bulk of the Zerg swarm passed the _Hobbes_, the lights disappeared. Then, just as Commander Udak began to list the contacts registering on the frigate's sensors, and the first scourges dove hungrily towards the _Keep_'s unprotected aft, space bloomed with fire.

The _Hobbes_ had not been able to reach Bajor in time to participate in its last-ditch defense, but every remaining vestige of Starfleet and its allies had heard of the Alliance, whose mighty warship had almost single-handedly saved the system from being overrun. As his viewscreen focused on the source of the sudden cascade of weapons fire, Garis knew that it could only be of one origin.

Alliance starfighters of all classes and descriptions cut into the pursuing cloud like predatory fish falling upon a school of bottom feeders. X-Wings belched quartets of crimson energy from their four wing-mounted laser cannons; Y-Wings traced swaths of destruction through the demonic flock with their turrets; B-Wings lobbed volleys of blaster and laser shot from afar; A-Wings dove straight into the thicket of creatures at the head of their formation, spinning and juking to avoid hitting their targets as they laid into them with withering streams of charged particles.

Behind them roared the mottled-white disk of the _Millennium Falcon_, its top and belly-mounted quad turrets disintegrating any of the beast that had escaped the first pass. One of the Zerg spawn managed to throw itself into the freighter's path and impact before the ship could change its course. A bloom of super-heated plasma and flaming entrails engulfed the _Falcon_, but it emerged unscathed, wobbling slightly to correct its course; the faint shimmer of its skin-tight deflector was the only sign anything had attempted to halt its progress.

"Captain, the Zerg force has diminished to seventy individuals, dropping at a rate of fifteen ever thirty seconds. At current rate, it should be completely eliminated within less than three minutes."

Garis mutely acknowledged the Vulcan's objective report, all but transfixed by the scene that was playing out before him. Now he understood how the fleet at Bajor had been able to withstand a full Zerg onslaught. Each of these fightercraft seemed to possess the firepower and speed of a Starfleet line warship, despite being less than a fortieth of their size. The Zerg force was disintegrating in a way he had never seen any of their elements fall apart before; if Garis did not know for a fact that the scourges were little more than muscled bags of gas and vestigial incisors, he would have said they were afraid.

Still, the day was not yet won. As the _Hobbes_ strained to catch up with the running firefight, one flighted beast managed to reach the fleeing Tellarite freighter and ram itself into the ship's graying top section. Its antiquated shields absorbed a majority of the blast, but the strain shorted them out completely. When another scourge launched its attack, there was nothing to prevent the creature from gouging a deep gash into the cargo hauler's starboard sublight drive. The blocky vessel began to spin out of control, its engines dying.

"Sir, the _Keep_'s structural integrity is beginning to fail, and its drive and communications systems are offline. Another direct hit will likely knock out its remaining systems, or breach its core outright."

Garis only had to ponder the tactical situation for a moment. There were still more than enough Zerg out there to tear his charge to pieces, and his vessel certainly couldn't get within range before they could. "Put me on an open frequency."

"All Alliance ships, the vessel at the rear of the civilian fleet has sustained heavy damage, and is under imminent threat of destruction. No more of the creatures can be allowed to reach its hull."

"Since you asked so nicely…" It was the same smooth voice from before, both confident and surprisingly informal. "I think we can give them something else to take a bite out of."

"Red Two, Three, form up on me. Green squad, see if you can catch up to the contacts angling starboard of that lagging freighter. The rest of you, take care of the stragglers."

A flurry of vocal confirmations and clicks sounded over the audio feed. Almost as soon as they ceased, a gruff, bass moan sounded somewhere in the background.

"Yeah, I see them Chewie. Let's just focus on these guys for now."

The _Millennium Falcon_, a pair of X-Wings guarding its flanks, broke from the main plane of battle, its main drive burning with a burst of blue-white illumination. The formation shot forward, blazing guns tracking one cloud of attackers as another was intercepted by the blindingly-fast cone of half a dozen sleek A-Wings.

The _Hobbes_ was almost in range of the main group of remaining scourges when the concerned voice of his scanning officer caught Garis' attention. "Sir, I'm picking up more contacts rising from the planets surface."

The Trill's amazement was replaced by the unsettling coldness of battle.

"Show me."

The viewscreen switched back to Coridan's dark face and focused on the forbidding same storm system, which had continued to intensify over the course of the battle. Another visual enhancement gave the new contacts full definition. They were biological, not the captured machines that the Zerg favored in their campaign, larger than the scourges and far more complex, with obvious sensory organs and frills of huge, undulating spines. The swarm rarely used living behemoths such as these in open space combat, but Garis had seen briefings on their capabilities, and knew that they could be just as deadly as their smaller, suicidal brethren. For one, they did not did not need to touch their prey to hinder it.

"Bring us about and divert power to shields," Garis ordered. "This fight isn't over yet."

The tusked mandibles of the dozen new fliers flexed and widened, preparing to disgorge some lethal projectile or pulsating spawn. The crew of Starfleet frigate braced for the inevitable impacts, the explosions, the soundless screeching of the Zerg's abominations.

Then, one by one, the emerging foes erupted into globes of atomic fire, missiles annihilated before they could shoot forth. Sluggishly, a few of the creatures attempted to turn back, to find shelter in the turbulent atmosphere they had left behind, but each was consumed despite their efforts. In less than half a minute, the Garis' viewscreen showed only Coridan's fitfully slumbering form.

Bewildered, the captain glanced at his tactical officer and then ordered the ship's sensors back upon the battleground around the lifeless moon. Could the Alliance fighters have done this as well, destroyed the enemy's second wave so quickly, and from such a distance?

Mirrored sunlight flooded the bridge, shrouding the scene before him, but Garis swiftly discerned that the fortunes of his fleet had altered once more. The last of the Zerg scourges were gone, clouds of minute debris that shed easily from the deflectors of the victorious Alliance fightercraft as they formed a loose perimeter around the civilian convey. More surprisingly, though, several more vessels had appeared, just rounding the moon's gentle curve. Two were obviously Starfleet, and another looked like a Cardassian Galor-class cruiser; these were hardly singular sights, even though Garis wished that they had arrived significantly earlier in the engagement. No, it was fourth form, between and larger than the others, that held his notice.

"Captain, I believe that it was the largest of those starships fired on the second Zerg force." Udak sounded almost awkward.

Garis couldn't blame him. Suddenly, he felt distinctly unneeded.

----------------------------------------

For once, things were going smoothly, and had Imal Ryceed been a religious woman, she would have given thanks to her gods for that fact alone. After years of fighting a losing war against the Empire, and the bizarre series of perilous escapes that were the last few weeks, any victory, even a small one, was a more potent opiate to the captain and her crew than the most expensive Hutt narcotic.

From the bridge of the _Republica_, she watched with satisfaction as her turbolaser batteries obliterated the unsuspecting Zerg reinforcements. A few days ago, the ship's heavy weapons were in such a state of disrepair that they couldn't have accurately targeted ships at half the distance of the bloated, invertebrate creatures. The tireless efforts of her engineering teams, supplemented by a few groups of eager, if technologically unprepared, Starfleet crewers had given her a total of four, fully functional medium turbolasers, twice as many as were available at the engagement at Bajor. Bolstered too were the light cruiser's lesser weapons systems, drives, and deflector arrays; the _Republica_ was still operating at less than half of its optimal combat efficiency, the highest level available without a full refit from a shipyard of her native disk, but the improvement was still impressive.

Ryceed reminded herself to recommend both the ship's executive officer and operations chief for accolades when this farce of a mission was over. Gavplek's dedication and Hessun's serene focus had probably done far more to hold the _Republica_ together then her leadership; all she had done was allow Councilor Organa to drag the ship from one battle to the next. Ryceed was under orders to follow the councilor's directives, and although she had voiced her reservations to the woman more than once, perhaps too much, she couldn't help but feel as though the peril placed upon her crew was of her own making.

"All targets confirmed destroyed," weapons control reported.

"Good." Ryceed made her way from the bridge's main viewport to the bank of fire control operators that occupied most of one wall of the chamber's lower deck. "Maintain combat readiness stations for the time being. I want us to be ready if anymore of those things decide to show their ugly faces."

"There's also the infestation on Coridan," Commander William Riker said, moving to Ryceed's side. "We cannot leave the system until the immediate Zerg threat has been completely eliminated."

The captain shot a look at the man. "Thank you, Commander. I do not require any further reminder of the _Republica_'s objectives here."

Riker's expression soured marginally and he yanked on the tunic of his brand new Starfleet uniform, but any response he might have given was cut short when a crewer at the Comm requested his attention.

When the man had left her presence, Ryceed let a small smile cross her lips. Riker was a smug, self-righteous bastard, but she was still beginning to like him. When he had first been assigned as the official Federation liaison to the _Republica_, the captain hadn't exactly welcomed him with open arms, but once she had gotten over the bother of having another person on her bridge to report to, her qualms with the appointment had faded, if only marginally. Though he was intended to be constant reminder of the Federation's interests and of the Alliance's compact with them, she still outranked the commander, and he had demonstrated a willingness to follow her orders, even when he disagreed with them.

Besides, Riker have proved to be something of an asset over the last few days. The _Republica_ had not spent all of the time since the victory at Bajor licking its wounds; though the strategists at the head of the compact Leia Organa had entered the ship into agreed that a major, concerted strike had to be made against the Zerg quickly, they nevertheless allowed for a brief respite during which the allies could marshal their forces. The Alliance cruiser had her two fighter squadrons had played a key role in that effort; as the bulk of the Starfleet and Klingon fleets were being repaired and diplomats being sent to the few intact military powers left within reach, Ryceed and Riker had been tasked with "putting out fires" on as many besieged worlds as possible.

With its vast speed and firepower advantages over its native counterparts, the _Republica_ could accomplish missions that would have required far too many resources and far too much time to be undertaken otherwise. Guided by Riker and starmaps provided by Starfleet, the ship had rescued pockets of survivors on isolated worlds, smashed nascent Zerg "occupation" forces before they could take root, and escorted civilian convoys to the relative safety of Bajor and its surrounding systems. Finding one planet, the Klingon colony H'atoria already completely overrun with the suffocating Zerg creep, Ryceed had ordered the most heavily infested continent slagged from orbit. The operation had been nothing next to the Imperial Base Delta Zero bombardment, by which Star Destroyers could turn an inhabited planet into a molten ball of rock in less than a day, but the sight of a titanic firestorm of her own making race across H'atoria's land and atmosphere had been one of the most unsettling things Ryceed had ever witnessed.

One of their other expeditions, a supply run on an abandoned ammunitions depot near the ravaged ruins of the planet Betazed, had seen their only significant encounter with opposition. As a Starfleet tanker was beaming up the last of munitions from the depot, hidden in the system's asteroid belt, a swarm of Zerg vessels and warriors, an old mining ship they had somehow converted into a mass driver at its head, had ambushed the _Republica_ and the cargo ship. Ryceed's cruiser had easily shrugged off the attack, but the tanker and its fighter escort had been trapped against the asteroid when it spontaneously began to disintegrate. Riker had realized that the converted mining ship was using its gravitic fields and tractor beams to destabilize the rock, and the _Republica_ destroyed it before the entire body shattered. They had lost the tanker and one of Ryceed's pilots, but Riker's quick thinking had saved the lives of half a dozen others.

She glanced at the man as he conversed with one of the Starfleet vessels they had brought with them to secure Coridan over a flat panel display. Riker also played a mean hand of Sabacc in the officer's mess after evening meals; he said it reminded him of a game he used to play with the command staff back on his old ship.

"Captain." Riker looked up from his screen. "One of the civilian freighters sustained heavy damage before we arrived. Her impulse engines and power systems have been compromised, and the captain's decided to abandon ship. The _Hobbes_ and our escorts have already begun transporting the crew to safety, but the cargo containers in the freighter's hold cannot be beamed out. They are requesting that we take on the load and transport it back to Bajor."

"Can't the cargo simply be abandoned?" Ryceed asked. "The refugees we picked up from that Ferengi commerce platform have already filled our holds nearly to capacity."

Riker shook his head. "The freighter, the _Keep_, is carrying dilithium re-crystallization equipment. It uses contained, directed gamma radiation to recharge the dilithium in the regulation centers of warp cores. That kind of machinery is hard to produce and difficult to transport; it has to be packed in large, heavy crates that are impossible to effectively scan or transport because of the radiation inside. The fleet has been looking for backup devices since the Zerg destroyed Starbase Montgomery a month ago. Without them, a third of the ships around Bajor will be unable to use their warp drives within a week."

Reluctantly, Ryceed nodded. Riker was right, but the captain wasn't happy about the prospect of another delay, even a brief one. She had just received word that all available ships were being called back to Bajor. The offensive was about to begin. Ryceed still didn't think of the campaign against the Zerg as her war, but she wanted it to see it over as much as any Starfleet officer; when the last world was recaptured and final monstrosity blasted, she could finally go home. There was still a war to fight there, one far closer to her heart.

"Can the containers survive in open space?"

"They should be fully sealed," Riker responded.

"See if you can get the _Keep_'s captain to dump her cargo before he evacuates it entirely. I'll dispatch our shuttles and repair ships to gather them up. In the mean time, there's still one thing we have to take care of."

Ryceed turned her attention to the holographic representation of Coridan that filled the bridge's main tactical projector. A small area on its surface, a strip of coastline on its northern southern hemisphere, was highlighted; the site of infection.

Soon, the spot would be a cratered ruin, and the planet would be safe. At least, safe until the Zerg decided to foul its landscape with another insidious seed.

Hopefully, if all went according to plan, they would never get the chance.


	39. Chapter Fifty Seven

**Chapter Fifty Seven**

No warship of the Holy Covenant was entirely devoted to the arts of combat and destruction. Within the curved halls of every vessel, argent or amethyst, picket or dreadnaught, plasma cores, Seraph racks, and barracks vied with the trappings of religion. Holographic projections of the High Prophets emerged from hallway monitors; holy sermons blared periodically over the communications net, and worship services were regular parts of the daily cycle; the sacred script of the Forerunners was inscribed on every duty station and mess chamber wall. No where was this doctrinal reverence more evident than the Hall of Catechism, one of the few shipboard rooms close enough to a ship's hull to sport an expansive viewport for contemplation of the heavens. The chambers were used for special religious observances, crew ceremonies, public discipline, and the reception of certain dignitaries; in the minds of many, the Hall was just as vital a part of a starship as its overbridge or reactor matrix.

And, installed alongside ornate iconography and dogmatic plaques, were the most intricate projection devices and recall circuitry available; the Halls made ideal map rooms.

The chambers of smaller vessels were often little larger than crew barracks, but heavier ships could sport massive, amphitheater-like spaces that rivaled the grand galleries of High Charity. Onboard the mightiest of the mighty, supercarriers like the _Sublime Transcendence_, their vaulted ceilings and panoramic viewports seemed to stretch on forever.

As he passed the pair of armored Lekgolo titans who guarded the room's main entrance in brooding silence, Supreme Commander Teno 'Falanamee, the title of Arbiter hidden beneath golden armor and mauve wrappings along with the scar that would forever tie him to his conflicted past, admired the adornment the vessel's commander had chosen for the space. Whereas some ships focused solely on the Forerunners and their emissaries, the Supreme Commander found the history of the Sangheili equally as prevalent here. Far murals depicted scenes from the ancestral homeworld, as it was before the First Age of Reconciliation and the Covenant's founding. Monolithic statues bore the likenesses of the greatest warriors in the holy empire's history, each clutching a battle-worn weapon or booming out orders that had been given in millennia long past.

Standing at the far end of the great chamber was a figure whose stature was undiminished even in the midst of the awesome expanse; Imperial Admiral Xytan 'Jar Wattinree. Menacing, regal, awe-inspiring, the Sangheili was all these things and more, and he wore his resplendent gold-silver armor with the ease of one who had earned it time and time again in the crucible of conflict. Before him was an unparalleled starscape, upon which the Combined Fleet of Righteous Purpose was poised in eager formation, the green and white face of a distant nebulae at its back. Behind him, filling the hall from floor to high ceiling, rotated a huge orb of glimmering, tinted light. Motes and bezels formed star systems and stellar phenomena, every component artfully incorporated to constitute a familiar set of a dozen spiraled arms and the void beyond; this was the galaxy in all its grandeur, the domain of the Covenant.

Teno 'Falanamee halted before the perimeter of the great map and assumed a posture of respect, eyeing his superior's turned back in anticipation. "I have come as summoned, Excellency."

The Imperial Admiral drew up his broad shoulders and came about to face the one who had addressed him. His feline eyes inspected 'Falanamee for a moment, and then he moved from his place before the grand viewport, forgoing the circular path that skirted the edge of the projection field and forging straight through the lattice of illumination. When he finally stopped, Wattinree was only a long stride from his visitor, but he still stood within the lit bubble, transient stars and worlds passing over his armor as the chamber's projectors mimicked the gradual movement of the galactic disk.

"There is no need for that, Supreme Commander," he rumbled, gesturing that 'Falanamee should rise, as he did readily. "This is a time for action and focus, not empty pleasantries. Besides, I seem to recall that you have more of a talent for strife than decorum."

"As you say, Admiral," 'Falanamee replied. Secretly, he was glad to find the warrior in a mood for such banter. The Sangheili had met the other a few times before, and he knew that if Wattinree was in a foul temper, topics of contention were best avoided, at risk of egregious personal injury. The Imperial Admiral was a skilled leader and fighter, charismatic, well known and highly respected the Covenant, but the fire that burned within him could scorch friend and foe alike if something disrupted his normally-measured demeanor.

Wattinree swirled a huge hand in the air next to him, and the stellar patterns reformed into the likeness of a collection of warships 'Falanamee recognized as his own, the Fleet of Particular Justice, reformed and supplemented since the engagement at the human world Reach. The Admiral selected one ship in particular, a five and a half kilometer assault carrier, and it ballooned to a size sufficient to nestle upon his palm.

"I trust your new command meets your needs; the _Sacrosanct_, isn't it? It is of the same class as the _Ascendant Justice_, and I believe that it has seen nearly as much combat as your old vessel. Still, you may find it rather limiting for a time; if I recall correctly, your former flagship sported some rather unorthodox enhancements." His mandibles widened into a slight smile. "Carriers do not typically bear battleship-grade energy projectors. I can only imagine that that particular modification gave the blade-ship you faced alone some pause, despite your eventual defeat. Nevertheless, I expect that the _Sacrosanct_ will serve."

"It has functioned well under my command since the Council assigned it to me," 'Falanamee said. "The _Sacrosanct_'s crew has also preformed admirably, despite the removal of their old master."

"Good."

'Falanamee paused a moment before continuing. "I have heard reports that Fleet Master 'Kreasee fell in combat during the Combined Fleet of Benevolent Edict's attempt to disrupt the enemy's rally point in the Ichor Drift. Is this so?" 'Kreasee, former commander of the _Sacrosanct_, had been among the first into battle after the Hierarchs had at last authorized a counterstrike against the human attackers.

Wattinree stared at the warrior gravely. "He fought nobly to the last. Accounts from the battle indicate that he rallied our forces after their flagship was destroyed, and dealt one of the foe blade-ships a killing below before fire consumed him."

'Falanamee nodded in respect, and then aligned his eyes with the admiral's once more. He was unsurprised that his superior did not mention that the entire combined fleet, nearly the size of Wattinree's own, had been annihilated along with 'Kreasee; that was a wound that the warriors of the Armada could only bear in silence. Many Sangheili had died on that day. Far too many.

After a moment of what might have been silent reflection, hidden mourning, or artfully contained rage, the Imperial Admiral turned to the bulk of the galactic replica and indicated for 'Falanamee to come to his side.

"Now, let us come to your purpose here, Supreme Commander. Your martial abilities are well-renowned, and I would be remiss to ignore such an asset. The Council has tasked me with consolidating our offensive fleets and forging a new strategy to stem the advance of these infernal humans. Your experience and input would be most valued."

Teno 'Falanamee nodded gracefully. "Then let us begin."

As the two officers worked, pouring over new intelligence reports, fleet statistics, and battle logs, 'Falanamee kept one eye on the other, carefully watching his posture and monitoring his mannerisms for the slightest inflection. The war that confronted them was, of course, of great concern for the Sangheili, but another threat hung ever-present in his mind. His swift reinstatement to the Armada had done little to assuage his fears on the treachery of the Prophets and their minions, and the course of the conflict in the last few days had all but convinced him that the coup he had witnessed the start of would not be stalled by the sudden Imperial incursion. Though the Prophets had seemed to acquiesce to the demands of the Sangheili components of the Council, agreeing to an open campaign against the human menace, their compliance brought with it a price that Teno feared his comrades were too preoccupied to acknowledge.

The Supreme Commander could only hope that Wattinree's mind was not similarly clouded.

After the pair had debated the distribution of reinforcements to the two mobile battle stations, the _Unyielding Hierophant_ and the _Harbinger of Dawn_, both of which formed the heart of command and control for fleet operations within the galactic arm, the Imperial Admiral dispelled the miniature representations of warships arrayed around them with the wave of his hand and replaced them with a shimmering projection of High Charity that was as large as he was.

"I have received word that the capital has withdrawn towards the homeworlds, and has paused at Asphodel to take on more soldiers and accommodate repairs to its slipspace drives."

"Asphodel is a Jiralhanae world," 'Falanamee said, allowing the faintest trace of a growl to accompany his words.

"It is." If Wattinree had recognized the Supreme Commander's inflective, he showed no sign of it. "While the vessel of the Hierarchs is being attended to, it will be unable to transition into slipspace, and will thus be vulnerable. I have been instructed to dispatch elements of the fleets of Remorseless Truth and Chaste Starlight to supplement their vanguard. The redeployments will weaken my cruiser cores around several key installations bordering human space, not significantly, but they will hinder offensive options along vectors distant from Joyous Exultation. I am still unfamiliar with the slipspace conditions in this sector of space. Which of these coordinates, by your experience, would be the best point from which to reform our main offensive network?"

Wattinree gestured to several coordinates set in the stars around them, but 'Falanamee did not follow his movements.

"You will be continuing offensive operations while the Armada is weakened in this way?"

The Imperial Admiral turned his gaze back to the subordinate. "Our onslaught must not relent until the enemy has been pushed from the galactic plane. The High Prophets made that clear when they authorized a counterattack. I will not allow a temporary setback such as this to force us into retreat once more."

"This is not a prudent course of action, Excellency," 'Falanamee pressed. "Even now, our forces are beginning to falter, and it will not be long until the enemy begins to actively seek out our installations and worlds. We could barely repel another concerted attack as it is. Spending more ships now on costly raids can only weaken us."

"And what would you have me do, Supreme Commander?" For the first time, Wattinree's tone was tinted with anger. "Hold our fleets back even as their warriors cry for battle? Wait here for the blade-ships of the humans to seek us out and overrun our lines?"

"You know that is not what I intend, Admiral," 'Falanamee replied, adding comparable heat to his tone. "My heart seeks vengeance and combat as much as any Sangheili's, but this passion is tempered, as it must be. I know that victory is possible, in spite of the enemy's might, but I too must acknowledge the true scope of the threat they pose. If we barrel into this foe blindly, it will tear our fleets asunder. Your experience and skill are great, Excellency; I know that you can see the truth in my words."

Wattinree glared at 'Falanamee for a long time in silence, and for all of his battle-hardened composure and genetic fortitude, the latter could not help to begin uneasy. To openly dispute the wisdom of a Prophet bordered on heresy; to speak to an Imperial Admiral in such a way could be suicidal.

"I cannot defy the Prophets on this matter." The mighty warrior's response came in the form of a growl, but 'Falanamee could sense that the feeling behind the words was not resolute.

"The Prophets are not all knowing, Excellency. On matters of war, we Sangheili have always possessed the superior perspective, if only for our intimacy with battle. Even the most pious warrior would willingly follow your order over that of the Hierarchs, if only you were to give it."

"You speak of heresy, 'Falanamee." Wattinree was suddenly very still. "I am no heretic. Do not make me suspect you of such a weakness."

"If heresy is alive within the Covenant, it does not reside within you, or I, or any Sangheili."

As words echoed through the chamber, 'Falanamee saw Wattinree's eyes widen and then narrow beneath his helm. The Imperial Admiral was no fool. The lesser fleet master might as well have openly defamed the Prophets; his meaning could have been no more clear.

"Guards."

'Falanamee tensed, and his weapon hand dipped imperceptivity towards his holstered sword hilt. The pair of Lekgolo at the main portal perked up at their master's call, raising their massive fuel rod cannons and repositioning blade-edged shields.

"Leave us."

The two glanced at each other, but they complied without comment, and lumbered out into the adjoining hallway without ceremony, the razor spikes on their backs creaking slightly as they walked.

When they were completely alone, 'Falanamee dared to relax his hand. The Imperial Admiral had not immediately declared him an enemy of the Covenant, as he was obligated to do by sacred oath. How long the lapse would last, though, 'Falanamee did not know. Wattinree was already staring at him with weighted expectation.

"You must have noticed by now how the High Prophets have chosen to fight this war. For decades, they have shown apathy towards the methods and organization of the Armada; we Sangheili have been given objectives, and it has been up to us to decide how best to achieve them. Now, however, the Prophets seem to take a great interest in our strategies. When, before this began, was the last time that the Hierarchs ordered specific fleets redeployed, much less specific elements of those fleets? When was the last time that they personally ordered battle groups not to withdraw from combat under any circumstance? You've seen the field reports from the Ichor Nebulae. That battle was lost as soon as the enemy summoned reinforcements, and yet the Combined Fleet of Benevolent Edict remained until every last cruiser had been shattered. They could have withdrawn honorably, and with minimal losses, had it not been for the directives from High Charity."

"How many of our greatest warriors have met their ends these last few days? Admiral 'Naqualee, Ship Master 'Inanraree, killed throwing themselves upon the enemy simply because such sacrifice was demanded by the _word of the gods_ or because of _honor and tradition_. What is honorable about dying uselessly and leaving the soldiers of the Covenant without guidance or motivation? Who are the Prophets to define our traditions for us, and chain us to strategies that were rendered obsolete as soon as the _Ascendant Justice_ burst into flames?"

"What of Keda 'Enifalee, the high zealot you sent to assault the source of the enemy's monitoring drones? I know something of your martial style, enough to see that that order went against your better judgment. Attacking a potentially superior force with no intelligence on the target and a fleet as small as 'Enifalee's? His defeat was all but certain from the moment you relayed that command. But the blame for his death does not lie on your head; the Prophets ordered that folly. Your only fault was submitting to them."

"The Hierarchs are bleeding us dry. Were a swift victory against the invaders their real aim, they would have been more cautious, more conservative. They would have continued the council in the capital, and allowed our warriors their say on strategy rather than filling them with religious fervor and sending them to their deaths. Has a single one of their species died since that first battle? Have their Jiralhanae pets suffered losses even approaching our own? Are the fleet elements that have been recalled to Asphodel, far from the front lines, not heavily crewed by the foul creatures?"

"We must not allow ourselves to be used like this any longer. We are not trinkets to be manipulated and then tossed away. I do not wish for this Covenant that has stood for so many generations to be torn asunder, but it is not I, or any Sangheili, who made the first tear. I do not know why the Prophets have betrayed us so, now, in our darkest hour, but surely you must see that they have. You must at least acknowledge the possibility, the suspicion of a threat. These machinations are not the first signs of treachery on the part of the Prophets, but if you resolve now to defy their sinister edicts, to do what is necessary to safeguard our people, then this corrosion at the very foundation of our civilization can be stopped before it consumes us all."

His darkest fears laid bare, 'Falanamee fell silent. He had said all that he could say, with all the passion and conviction that a warrior hardened by decades of battle and betrayal could muster. His ultimatum had both drained him and relieved some of the weight that lay upon his heart, but he dared not gasp for breath or relax his resolute posture. Wattinree had still not spoken.

The Imperial Admiral stared at his subordinate for a long time before moving again, and when he did at last break the statuesque pose, it was not to speak. He turned away from the Supreme Commander, slowly folded his long, muscular arms behind his back, and began to walk away, holographic light shedding from his armored bulk. When his commanding voice finally drifted back to 'Falanamee, its tone was impossibly cold.

"You are right about one thing, at least, Supreme Commander. The Covenant has lost a great many fine leaders in this conflict, and we require those left more than ever now."

"For that, and no other reason, I will allow you to leave this room alive."

Wattinree paused, and then turned to look up at the statue of an ancient Sangheili general, his sword held aloft, rallying his forces towards glorious victory.

"I do not know what could have transpired to turn a warrior of your reputation and ability into a mouthpiece of poison. I do not want to know. I have heard enough of your words, your defamations, your heresy, and I will not suffer another utterance. You have dishonored yourself in a way that any true servant of the Covenant and our people could not even contemplate. They would sooner die. Moreover, you have done this here, in full view of our ancestors. You have done this _on my ship_."

"You will leave now. You will return to the _Sacrosanct_, and you will ensure that your fleet is prepared for battle. When the time comes, you will lead them into combat with all the dedication and ability demanded by your station. And then, when the enemy is wiped from this galaxy and the Holy Covenant is once again secure, you will come to me, and I shall see if you have enough warrior's spirit left within you to die with some dignity. Do not ever repeat what you have said in this place. Do not dishonor your name further, and do not befoul the hearts of those under your command. Defy me, and you're death will be swift and utterly graceless."

Then Wattinree was silent, alone against his vast starscape. 'Falanamee reared back and clenched his powerful fists tight, but he knew that there was nothing more that could be done. He regarded the admiral a second longer, barely able to contain the anger and regret that had replaced his cautious resolve. Then, he turned for the chamber's entryway.

The Lekgolo Wattinree had sent away gazed at the Supreme Commander as he marched past their posts outside the Hall of Catechism and off down the central walkway, head held as high as it had been when he had arrived. The pair exchanged an indecipherable look with hidden eyes as the Sangheili disappeared around a corner, and then solemnly trudged back to their former posts.

Almost as soon as the giants had gone, a far smaller, slighter figure appeared in the hall, slipping from behind one of the broad pillars that dominated the great chamber's approach. It was a Kig-Yar, gaunt and avian, with a beak-like mouth that perpetually bore vicious teeth and wide, bloodshot eyes that ever scanned its world with paranoid keenness. Cautiously, the figure approached the sealed doorway, looked it over, and then peered down the empty way that 'Falanamee had taken. Its narrow, gaping maw widened into a sneer.

Then, with a muffled squawk, the creature was gone.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

With a faint hiss, the door of the tiny, stark cubicle slid shut. The world within its cool, metal frame was isolated from the rest of the universe, a bubble of stillness, tethered to reality only by the distant vibration of the Imperial shuttlecraft's drives as it forged through the abyss of hyperspace.

The sole occupant of this space was motionless for a long moment, frozen just beyond the sealed doorframe. Aayla Secura did not spare the furnishings of the chamber the most fleeting of thoughts; it was a simple room, fitted with a low bed, a computer terminal, and a rudimentary refresher. Of course, even if it had been as vast and elaborate as a Neimoidian treasure vault, the Twi'lek would have paid it no heed. The conflagration of thoughts and emotions that burned within her mind consumed it too fully now for any purely material concern to penetrate easily. Even the unbridled exhaustion that weighed upon her limbs required some time to cajole her towards the sleeping quarter's primary fixture, onto which she finally sank without a sound.

The woman who had once been a Jedi Knight was tired, more tired than she had been in all of the recollections that she could still summon from the turbulent umbra that hung over her mind. The last days, she could not clearly recall how many it had been, had seen the Twi'lek and her rancorous cohort flit from one side of the Empire to the other, reaping a bloody crop as they went. The list her master, Lord Vader, had guided her to had been a long one, a hundred and more souls on as many worlds, but she had worked swiftly, feverishly, tirelessly, finding each, judging their allegiances, and culling those she deemed to be disloyal or unfit. Her lethal crusade was a blur; with each passing hour she could remember less and less of the journey, the sequence of worlds she had visited, the methods she had used to detect and dispatch the unworthy. But that didn't matter now. Her task was complete, the listed was finished, and now she could return to the Imperial Center and await Darth Vader's return from his far battle front, content that she had faithfully executed his will.

But she did not feel any satisfaction, none of the confidence or focus that Vader's attentions had given her, and certainly none of the peace that she had felt as a Jedi, in a life long past. Instead, her mind roiled with conflict and pain. These were things that the Dark Side flourished upon, that the Sith and their followers should relish, but she could draw nothing from them. They only pounded at her ceaselessly, weakening her body and her mind. Even her connection to the Force seemed to be choking under the poisonous cloud that had enveloped her essence.

Breathing raggedly, Aayla stripped away long, ebon mantle that had she had adopted in her service to the Dark Lord until her blue skin was bare to the bleak, artificial light of the cabin. When her overclothes had been discarded, the fingers of her left hand moved haltingly to the dark sheath in which her right arm was encased. Gritting her teeth, the woman seized the top of the long glove and peeled it down slowly, shivering as a new wave of pain swept over her. Vader's medical staff had eliminated any physical means by which the wound that Palpatine had inflicted upon her, a scab of blackened, cracked flesh that covered the entire appendage, could render discomfort, but they had been unable to remedy its appearance, or the wave of torment and revulsion that swept over her every time she laid eyes upon it. The power of the Dark Side could not be undone by mortal means alone.

Aayla let the foulness of the mark upon her arm flow through her, attempting to embrace the feelings, funnel them into the engine of hate that churned in concert with the beating of her heart. When her task had still loomed unfinished, she had used the scar to supplement her strength; the memory of the foul creature that had scarred her, the tantalizing taste of the Force's true power. Hate and lust had quenched what food and water could not.

Now, however, the intensity of the emotions that swept from the wound was overwhelming. The Twi'lek could no more draw strength from them than she could the hollow Jedi teachings that still occasionally echoed in the back of her mind. As she looked upon charred remains of what had once been smooth, lustrous skin, Aayla could feel the storm that raged within her head howl with new energy. Pain coursed down her spine, burning nerves and wreaking havoc with her already fragmented senses. Aayla wrenched the lip of the glove up, only barely stopping herself from reeling onto the floor.

There had been pain before. There had been a clouding of her thoughts. But this was new, this was different. No power could come from the torment that fought to engulf her now, no arcane knowledge or forgotten skill.

The Twi'lek clenched her hands together and ground them under her chin, hazel eyes darting aimlessly around the dim room, chasing phantoms that only she could see. She could feel the pain working its way into the farthest depths of her consciousnesses now, severing mental paths and obscuring those memories she could still perceive.

Desperately, Aayla cast about for an anchor, something with which she could drag herself back from this corrupting abyss. This was simply part of the process, she tried to convince herself, the genesis of the dark Jedi, the birth of a Sith. She just had to remember what she was doing this for, why she had acquiesced to the embrace of the Dark Side. It would give her power; it would give her clarity of purpose. It had given her the strength to avenge the destruction of her old life, and break free of the chains that the old masters of the Jedi Council had placed upon her. It would keep her safe in a world of chaos and death. It would let her live, and lend life to those she cared about. It would please Lord Vader, the man who had saved her, shown her the way.

But even as she drew in this list of virtues, strengths that the Dark Side would provide and needs that it would satiate, it evaporated before her fevered mind's eye. It was all hollow, useless. What was power if she could only live in pain? What was clarity if she could only see the darkness that consumed her? Had felling Palpatine done anything for those he had slain decades before? Did her actions truly mean anything to Darth Vader? Should she have devoted herself to a man who was a shattered shell of the soul she had once known so long ago at all?

As this failed attempt at solace faded into the churning maw of the storm, voices and images welled up to replace it. But they were no heralds of peace. The cries of those she had damned and slain roared in her ears, the weeping, the guttural cries, the irrational begging and bargaining. Each came with a face, dead-eyed, some bloody, others deformed and scarred, all bearing tokens what she had wrought. And now she could no longer remember why she had slain them, why she had spared some of the treacherous and skewered the loyal. They were all foul, bloody creatures, but…

But so was she.

The thought slashed at her as though it were a blade, cutting her more deeply than it should any follower of the darkness.

Delirious with pain and fear, Aayla fell forward onto the metal floor, flailing about for something, anything that could stop the anguish that threatened to tear her mind and body apart.

Then, her unbound hand fell upon something cool. Familiar.

Peering through the tears and cold sweat that stained her face, Aayla could make out the bulky cylinder of her lightsaber, lying on the ground where it had fallen when she had removed her shroud. The storm within her abated, if only slightly, and she summoned the strength to pull the hilt closer.

It was not her sword, she remembered dimly; that blade had been destroyed in combat with the Emperor. Instead, this one had been a gift from Darth Vader, a sign of her bondage to him. He had told her that it had once belonged to Obi-Wan Kenobi, his old master, one he had slain, among the last of his ancient order. It was a sign of his triumph over the weakness that the Jedi had taught, and he had passed it on to her so that she might know power and control as the Sith lord did.

Now, though, as she ran a finger over the object's smooth grips and knob-like controls, an entirely different effect manifested itself. Something stirred within her, something that had been nestled and hidden so deeply that the dark storm had not yet touched it. It put forth a tendril, and Aayla felt a fragment of focus return to her, and then an ounce of strength. Not the raw, uncaring power of the Dark Side, but the firm, vital warmth of another force, almost alien to her and yet wholly welcome.

She could see new faces now, not those of the slain, but of the living, the living as she remembered them, from so long ago. Obi-Wan's smiling, bearded face, friendly, compassionate, staunch in the face of the grimmest foe. Masters Tholme and Plo Koon, who had taught her the ways of the galaxy and the Force. Kit Fisto, Mace Windu, wise old Yoda, comrades, guides, and guardians. Quinlan Vos, a mentor who rescued her from the darkness of a galaxy without friends and family, and saved her from the Dark Side's touch in decades long past. They came to her now not as shades, ghosts of what she had lost, and she did not see them as oppressors or fools. They still bore light for her, survived in the tempest of her mind, despite the tumult that consumed all else.

Her lips quivering, Aayla Secura began to whisper, the lines of a mantra she had thought long forgotten flowing suddenly back to her.

"There… there is no… no emotion, there… is peace."

"There is no…"

The words caught in her throat. She knew them still, she wished, she yearned to speak them, to summon the light that they might bring, the peace that still dwelt somewhere within her. And yet, no more would come. She gagged, lurching up, lightsaber still clasped in her left hand, but no movement could knock free the sudden barrier.

Then she felt it. The thing she should have felt long before, so long before. In the illumination of that one spark, that one cache of radiance that had somehow kept alight within her corrupted bosom, she could sense, she could see with all her senses what had stayed her tongue, and was now climbing from the depths of the storm.

Desperately, acting on some impulse she could not comprehend, perhaps a discarded fragment of duty or simple terror, she lifted Obi-Wan's lightsaber to her forehead and pushed its conical energy emitter against her wet skin. Her finger twitched on the ignition key, as if struggling against invisible bonds to execute its final order, but it did not, could not depress the button. With the last of the strength that the light within her had provided, Aayla reached out through the Force, clawing for the control that her body could no longer reach. It was all that consumed her now; she wanted to end it. End everything. It was the only way.

The only way to stop _it_.

Lumiya sat in the shuttle's command position, smoothly configuring the ship's drive systems for atmospheric approach and initiating a preliminary landing checklist. The communication's display lit up with a transmission from Imperial Approach Control, and the dark Jedi swiftly relayed the codes that would exempt her ship from all normal vector controls, flight restrictions, and inspections. The stuffy officer on the other end of the line processed the information and gave Lumiya full clearance, and then quickly broke contract; any officer who had served in the Core Regions for very long knew that it was best not to waylay vessels with such high level clearance with bureaucratic jargon or empty pleasantries.

Her approach preparations completed and entry vector locked in, Lumiya leaned back wearily. The mission had been draining for her as well, all the more so as her companion grew more and more insular and hostile. Though she dared not speak them, the cyborg still held many reservations about Aayla and her campaign. The Twi'lek's recent, unexplained expedition to the Beshqek system had only heightened Lumiya's suspicion.

A cold wind suddenly cut through the woman, and startled, she turned in her seat to see Aayla enter the shuttle's cockpit. Lumiya had felt always something strange when in the presence in the alien, but the aura had previously been faint and indistinct. As the black-robed assassin seated herself in the copilot's chair, though, the ambiguous sensation that manifested itself was magnified significantly, and what skin Lumiya had left under her macabre cocoon crawled.

There was something else about Aayla that was different, as well, something that raised Lumiya's hackles even more than the chilling aura. The Twi'lek was smiling, almost grinning, something that the human had not seen her do since their first execution.

"We're nearly back, then," Aayla said, still smiling. "Back home."

Lumiya nodded slowly, unsure. "Yes. Home."

Before them, the silvery disk of Coruscant glowed in the light of its cold, distant sun.


	40. Chapter Fifty Eight

**Chapter Fifty Eight**

The skies above the blue-green world of Bajor swarmed with activity. Over the past decades, the once peaceful and isolated planet's local space had been transformed into assembly ground and battlefield so many times that one great fleet or another had become a near-permanent fixture there. The Cardassian invaders who had ravaged the globe and propelled its people into the galactic spotlight; the Federation task force that had attempted to guide the world down the tumultuous path back to peace; the Starfleet, Klingon, Romulan, and Dominion fleets that had jockeyed for control of the crucial world throughout the course of their bloody war; the savage Zerg host that had thrown itself ravenously on its new prize and the battered defenders who had only prevailed by the kindest of providence. This long history of conflict was etched upon the very void that surrounded Bajor, and the multitudes of scarred and weary warships clustered around it seemed to have borne an equal share of that unforgiving legacy.

During the darkest days of their newest, most dire battle, the weight of that protracted hardship had been inescapable, bearing down upon each crewman and commander, pushing them to the edge of their collective will. Now, however, something was different. The change was subtle, hidden beneath battle-stressed hulls and faces worn white with strain, but it was there nonetheless, and all assembled could feel it.

Hope.

More than three hundred warships now congregated around the Bajoran homeworld, twice the number that had defended it only two weeks previously. Shuttles, repair ships, and tugs of every size and origin flitted between loose battle groups and regimented flotillas, ferrying fresh crews and busily effecting repairs or relaying vital supplies. Even the empty blackness was alive with energy; transporter grids on dozens of ships distributed personnel and material feverishly, stopping only when their capacitors required respite from the stress of constant use. At the center of this furious labyrinth of activity, a motley collection of space stations, most half-built skeletons or veritable artifacts, all freshly deposited and assembled in the system, overhauled the most badly damaged of the vessels and coordinated the hordes of support ships and engineering teams that seemed to be needed everywhere at once. Positioned alongside them, still aligned with the planet's capital below, Deep Space Nine was the nerve center of the entire armada, drafted into service even as the last of its Zerg boarders were being hunted down.

The battle-hardened remnants of Starfleet and the Klingon Defense Force were no longer the sole guardians of the system. Though most had been destroyed or irrevocably damaged after the arrival of the unexpected Alliance reinforcements, dozens of warships captured in the first days of the war had been returned to their rightful fold, fully cleansed and crewed as best as the allied fleet could manage. Joining these holdouts were entirely new elements, scattered Federation and Klingon ships rallied from their far-flung redoubts by the promise of unified action and new hope for the future.

Admiral Nechayev had been sure not to limit her call to arms to traditional allies. The Swarm threatened all other life in the galaxy, and the unified efforts of more than two ravaged states would be required to stave it off. Scattered throughout the mighty battle fleet were finned Cardassian cruisers, crescent-shaped Ferengi marauders, flighty Tzenkethi raiders, and vessels from half a dozen other powers. Worlds that barely had a squadron of ships for planetary defense had sent all they possessed at the Federation's call. Most knew that even an intact home guard would be worthless against the Zerg if this last allied push were to fail.

Even the Romulan Empire had acknowledged that fact. Many soldiers, human and Klingon alike, reviled the reclusive power for entrenching behind their borders as the rest of the quadrant burned, but even the most embittered officer could not help but be impressed by their contribution. Thirty top-of-the-line, cloaked-enabled warbirds with battle-tested crews and photon torpedoes to spare.

The irrepressible hopefulness that pervaded the armada was not caused by this bolstering of numbers and strength alone. Captain Jean-Luc Picard, a renowned diplomat and seasoned veteran whose reputation had only grown after his mysterious disappearance almost a decade before, had returned the galaxy in its most egregious time of need. Though not the most decorated or experienced officer in Starfleet history, the man's career had taken him to every corner of the Federation and beyond, where he had diffused hostile situations and defeated marauding foes beyond count. Every human knew of how he and his crew had stopped the first Borg attempt to assimilate Earth. Every Klingon remembered how he had arbitrated the succession of their Supreme Chancellery when their species had been on the brink of civil war. More than munitions, ships, and warm bodies, the Galaxy's defenders needed heroes, and the measured Frenchman filled the role consummately.

Almost as important for morale as the Captain was his new command. The _Enterprise_ had been born anew. After the last ship of the long, prestigious series vanished, the legendary name had been mothballed, and so it had remained until Picard and what was left of his crew reappeared, lacking their old vessel. Rather than dwell upon the loss of the ship, Admiral Nechayev had somehow been able to produce the _USS Sanguine_, a Sovereign-class cruiser that had managed to escape numerous contacts with Zerg forces virtually unscathed. Her captain had graciously stepped aside to allow Picard a new command and the vessel had been renamed the _USS Enterprise-E_ with as much fanfare as could be mustered. A day after the ceremony, more than two thousand Bajorans and civilian refugees had petitioned to join the fleet.

All this, however, was inconsequential next to the blistered warship that formed the heart of the allied fleet. The one ship that had given life and resolve back to millions, and contained within its hull the power to change a galaxy.

---------------------------------------------------------

The forward marine enlisted officer's crew barracks onboard the _Republica_ were almost completely vacant, bunks neatly made and personal gear stowed in small wall lockers. Though more intimate and somewhat better appointed than the sleeping quarters of the rank and file several decks below, the hall-like, semicircular chamber was still communal and militarily sparse.

Master Chief Petty Officer John-117, or simply the Chief, liked it that way. The Spartan had lived almost his entire life in similar environs, and he found comfort in being allowed to bunk with other soldiers, even if half of them were of species he'd never even imagined seeing, much less sharing a latrine with. After serving under him during the purge of Deep Space Nine, the ship's trooper detail had taken to the artificially enhanced warrior, and he in turn had let down a few of the mental and physical barriers that he had kept in place since being torn from his world.

The Chief had even started walking about the ship in Alliance fatigues, his MJOLNIR Mark VI battle armor left powered down and stowed away to conserve its internal systems. Cortana would probably have something to say about this newfound penchant for 'nakedness', were she privy to it. Like many Spartans, who were feared as much as revered by much of the UNSC military establishment, John rarely removed his obscuring uniform before anyone other than his brothers and sisters in arms.

Of course, he and the AI had barely spoken since Bajor had been fully secured. Her tactical, technical, and communications skills made Cortana an indispensable asset to the fleet's leadership, and she had apparently been more than willing to devote all of her considerable mental resources to their plans. Though he would barely even admit it to himself, the Chief was beginning to miss having the sarcastic, quick-witted intellect close at hand. After all, she was one of his last real links to home, and the two had served together in a more personal way than any other could claim, even his fellow Spartans.

Fortunately, he didn't have very much free time to dwell on such feelings, either.

He stood before the open locker that was mounted next to his bunk, pawing through its meager contents. After removing his requisitioned uniform, folding it, and placing it in a large duffel that he had withdrawn from the locker along with a few other effects, the Chief turned to a large, locked cabinet at the rear of the chamber. Swiftly, he punched an eight digit code into the armored alcove's interface panel, and pulled its door open. Inside, lying upon a wide shelf that normally housed emergency gear, ammunition, and spare clothing, the opaque, reflective bowl of his battle mask stared up at the Spartan.

As his eyes scanned the mirrored half-hemisphere and the angular, greenish helm upon which it was mounted, a chill of unease ran through him. Though he had been trained for decades to be a ruthless, uncompromising killing machine, John-117 was still a human being, even if he often attempted to suppress the feelings that that condition engendered, especially while in potentially hostile situations. His training told him that as long as he was so distantly removed from the UNSC, he operated under such circumstances, but over the last few days, his resolve in that regard had been waning. Even Spartans, the ultimate commandos, weren't intended to be deployed alone, and as if on instinct, he had begun to think of the crew of the _Republica_ and its allies as comrades just as close than any of the UNSC troopers with which he had served in the past. It was a perfectly logical adaptation, but something about the ease with which he had assimilated into a new military establishment, if only temporarily, made the Chief restless.

Then again, perhaps it was just hard to teach an old dog new tricks. And John was beginning to feel quite a lot like an old mutt.

With practiced ease, he removed each component of his scarred, dull-green armor, neatly stacked beneath his helm, and applied them to his limbs and torso. Reinforced plates fused with one another in an impenetrable mesh; crystalline under-layers warmed with new energy as they interfaced with the miniature fusion generator encased beneath the armor's shoulder plates; hydrostatic gel flowed throughout the suit, covering the Chief's bare skin in a comfortable, flexible sheath that would protect him from plasma burns and armor chaffing, seal open wounds, and even lock the wearer from the ravages of raw vacuum.

After flexing his hands in their Herculean gauntlets, the Chief took hold of his helm and lowered it over his pale, clean-shaven face. Seals and vents hissed as his armor, now a completely enclosed, self-sustaining system, pressurized and then equalized its internal environment with the ship's. Filters thrummed to life, and the taste of doubly-sanitized and comfortingly familiar air met the Spartan's lips. He braced for the icy stab at the base of his neck that would herald Cortana's neural interface, frowned when no such feeling came, and then quickly busied himself with diagnostic screens that were appearing before his eyes. Life-support gauges, energy shield indicators, motion detectors, suit status monitors, targeting assistants, FOF HUD; all were in working order, a testament to the armor's engineers.

Before closing the storage alcove, the Chief also withdrew a large, thick-gripped blaster pistol and tossed it experimentally from one hand to the other. It was an Imperial-made SoroSuub SSK-7, given to him by Major Truul before they had boarded the infested Bajoran space station. It had a slower fire rate than he was used to from sidearms, and an incompatibility in his armor's software made remote targeting and ammunition checking with it impossible, but it still packed a powerful punch, and its unusually wide trigger guard was perfectly suited for the Chief's gauntleted hand. Switching back to his right hand, he reflexively sighted along its traditional iron sight, and then slid it into a thigh holster.

Fully equipped, the Spartan brought a chronometer into view with a precise facial tick. The timepiece had been synchronized with the _Republica_'s clock, and the Chief was still getting used to the foreign system, but he was fairly certain that he was slightly ahead of schedule.

Unwilling to simply wait, he rummaged in his duffel and withdrew a palm-sized datapad. Although his digits were more than twice their normal diameter, he managed to access its interface with only a small amount of difficulty, and pulled up the first file in the computer's database. A battle plan.

Allied Fleet Command, a provisional hierarchy set up by the political and military remnants of the United Federation of Planets, the Klingon Empire, the Bajoran Ministry, and a handful of other states, had presented its stratagem for a counter-campaign against the Zerg a day after Captain Picard had returned successful from Romulan Space. Before more than one hundred captains, army officers, and officials, the de facto leaders of the Allied force, Fleet Admiral Nechayev and General K'Nera, along with Princess Leia Organa and High Templar Tassadar, had outlined a relatively simple plan, one which they hoped to execute before the month was out. Against all odds, the Zerg queen and her minions had lost the initiative in their war, and Tassadar was emphatic that she not be allowed to regain it.

The massive fleet assembled around Bajor would break into several independent task forces, with a smaller division left to defend the planet and the hordes of refugees that were flowing into camps all across its surface. These strike groups would then begin to assault key strategic worlds and installations throughout the quadrant in simultaneous raids. Salvageable infrastructure, like intact Starbases, shipyards, and mining platforms, would be the priority, and emphasis would be placed on retaking and restarting their operation to further supplement the Allied fleet, which, despite its recent boon, was still outmatched by the thieved Zerg armada.

After these assets had been secured, the battle groups would begin to attack worlds known to be core hives for the Swarm, burning them from orbit to ensure that they could no longer provide the Zerg with fresh monstrosities. Undoubtedly, this would result in major confrontations with the opposing armada, a prospect that would normally mean casualties that the Allied fleet could not absorb.

That was where the _Republica_ came in. Relying upon her swift hyperdrive, the light cruiser could jump from battle to battle, sewing enough chaos in the Zerg lines to turn the tide in favor of the Allied forces before jumping away again. Working with a team of Starfleet and Alliance analysts, Cortana projected that within only a few weeks, the Zerg military complex would be on the verge of collapse, and the retaking of key worlds like Ty'Gokor, Vulcan, and Earth could be conducted at AFCOM's leisure.

That was not the end of the campaign, however. There were dozens of worlds throughout inhabited space that were infested, but still maintained populations of embattled survivors, or planets so vital for strategic or morale reasons that they could not simply be bombarded into submission. Ground forces would be required to rescue isolated civilian holdouts, reclaim population centers, and secure captured ships and installations. Although Zerg ground forces were largely composed of organically-armored, barely coordinated animals, the sentient brain creatures that controlled them telepathically, the Cerebrates, would have to be located and destroyed before each world could be fully secured. The Master Chief had thought that, even in their weakened states, the Federation and Klingon Empire could muster the armies necessary to hunt down these creatures and stave off the mindless drones that the death of each mind would yield. Certainly, there was no shortage of willing conscripts among the refugee population, untrained as they were.

When Cortana had suggested that he be appointed Chief Tactical Advisor to the AFCOM's Personnel Combat division, a posting that would give him the brand-new rank of lieutenant general, and Command had readily agreed, the Chief had quickly discovered just how wrong he was.

After cursorily scanning the campaign outline, the Spartan brought up another file. A summary of Starfleet ground combat doctrine flashed before his eyes, complete with detailed statistics and annotations on every combat vehicle, personnel weapon, and support system in its arsenal. A similar compendium based on UNSC conventions would have taken months to read, and far longer to fully comprehend. The Chief had digested the volume in his hands in a single night's study.

The Federation had relied on its fleets almost entirely for both defense and offense since Starfleet's conception. Most of the foes that the power had faced over the course of its history had emphasized space power over atmospheric and terrestrial supremacy, and it had adapted its military similarly, to the point where they no longer even had a separate army command structure. Indeed, the Federation barely had an army at all; while the recent war with the Dominion had necessitated the training of a few divisions of dedicated group forces, the Federation still relied almost entirely on their fleet security officers for everything from infantry to shock troopers to military police. They were trained to fight in ship corridors, with low-powered hand phasers and little to no body armor. Mechanized units were virtually non-existent. Repurposed shuttlecraft, unarmed "hopper" atmospheric transports, a few poorly-designed scouting buggies; Starfleet depended almost entirely upon their transporters to move soldiers.

This final weakness in particular had hindered the Federation during the Zerg invasion. By some unknown means - Tassadar suspected that the "psionic" abilities of their brain creatures were to blame – the hordes that had fallen upon worlds were capable of disrupting transporter operation over wide swaths of land and space. Hundreds of thousands of civilians on Earth alone had been killed simply because the waiting evacuation ships suddenly found themselves unable to maintain cohesive molecular locks on their charges. Not only would any reclaiming army have to physically land on infested worlds, they would be unable to call upon orbiting vessels for point to point relocation or emergency recall.

The Klingon army was little better. It did possess a handful of armed and armored ground transports, but most had been lost during the initial stages of the invasion and the hopeless defense of their homeworld. Defense Force troopers also were more accustomed to wearing combat gear and armor, but their actual combat doctrine was atrocious. Onboard Deep Space Nine, the Chief had actually witnessed several warriors holster their disruptors and engage the maddened Zerg claw-creatures in close quarters with ungainly, bladed weapons that looked to be more ceremonial than purpose-made.

Shaking his head, the Chief dropped the datapad into his bag and closed his eyes.

He would have to completely rebuild AFCOM's army, and he would have to do it in less time than a raw UNSC marine recruit had to go through basic training.

The presence the _Republica_ and her trooper complement did provide some small consolation; a few of them had been stormtroopers or Imperial army officers with actual combat training and experience before they had defected, and the rest were still a cut above the average Starfleet security officer or Klingon grunt. He had already begun covertly selecting Alliance soldiers that he wanted transferred under his command to become instructors and squad leaders, assuming he could convince Major Truul and Captain Ryceed to part with them.

Then there was the issue of weaponry. The deficit in armor support couldn't be helped, not on such short notice and with all of the Allied industrial facilities tied up refitting the fleet; the Chief could only hope that the reports of tank-like Zerg juggernauts and shuttle-sized scorpion creatures were exaggerations or anomalies.

Hand weapons were another matter. The energetic chain-reaction phasers and disrupters favored by his new soldiers were overly delicate, power-hungry, ergonomic nightmares, but they were reasonably effective against the flesh and bone of the smaller Zerg minions, and, most importantly, they were in relative abundance. The Master Chief would have preferred to outfit his new soldiers with more versatile and durable ballistic firearms, and he planned on having some designed and replicated as soon as the necessary facilities and engineers were available, but for now he could make due. Besides, there was the _Republica_'s arsenal of blasters and detonators, meager though it was, and they could always field-rig a photon torpedo or two if things came to that.

A door at one end of the curved chamber slid open and an Alliance officer entered, his short ponytail dangling from a thinning mane of brown hair.

The Master Chief jumped to attention, saluting the older man. "Major."

Truul Besteen grinned. "I really ought to be saluting you. Lieutenant general, eh? Can't say that I disagree with Allied Command's decision." He reached out to shake the super soldier's hand, glanced at the vice-like gauntlets that encased it, and opted for a firm slap pat on the shoulder instead. "Still, this must put you in a real fix."

The Chief eased his posture. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I can tell you what I'd feel like if the Feds drafted me into this military complex of theirs. I appreciate what they're tryin' to do, what they're tryin' to protect, and I'm more than happy to help 'em do it, but I don't think I'd take too well to taking a seat in their command hierarchy. Too stiff and artificial for my tastes, if you know what I mean. From what I've seen, the Feds are like Imps with the 'murderous' and 'fluffy' bits of their brains swapped. No offense, of course. They're good guys, just too good. Their comfortable ships and classically-trained officers aren't cut out for a war like this."

He chuckled. "And that's not even mentioning the Klingons."

The Chief nodded. "This isn't the sort of fighting force I'm used to, either. Still, they've managed to survive this long without our assistance. It's my duty to make sure that they continue to do so, and with fewer casualties."

"Well, better you than me. I had enough of instructors for a lifetime back in my Academy days, and I can't say that I'd be too keen on becoming one myself." Truul glanced at a wall-mounted chronometer. "Well, it's about time we were going. I don't want to keep Councilor Organa waiting, and I'll bet your new students shouldn't be left unsupervised for too long, either."

The Chief took his bag in one hand and nodded towards the door. Dozens of new "students" were indeed waiting on Deep Space Nine, security officers and commanders from all over the fleet who had been selected to form the core of AFCOM's ground forces. With the assistance of a set of holosuites repurposed from the local Ferengi merchant's bar, the Chief hoped to give the soldiers a crash course in battlefield tactics, from combined arms to jungle warfare.

As the two exited the barracks, John allowed himself one last view of the tidy space. If only for a short while, the soldier had found a home away from home, and now he was leaving it, probably for good. For some reason, the thought was far more discouraging than the prospect of any of the trials yet to come.

----------------------------------------------------------

"Laura!"

The ensign halted, stepped out of the way of a weary-looking team of engineers, and peered back down the axial hallway for the source of the shout. With just enough grace to avoid tripping over his own feet, Jacen Solo skirted around a Mon Cal officer and closed the distance between them at a jog.

"Jacen!" The woman embraced the young Jedi warmly before he could even catch his breath. "I've been looking for you."

"I heard that you've been reactivated," he said, still locked in her arms.

"Yes, I just heard a few hours ago. I guess the doctor finally had enough of watching me for nervous ticks and muscle spasms." Slowly Laura released the man, but she was still beaming. "I've been assigned to the _Versailles_. Admiral Nechayev's flagship! They must really be short on able bodies."

Finally able to breath again, Jacen looked the woman over with a practiced eye. With little else to do over the last few weeks, the knight had been spending most of his time in the _Republica_'s medbay. He wasn't a skilled healer like some of the others of the Order, but he knew a few basics, and the Alliance medical staff had been inundated with injuries from the recent battles and the refugee ships that continued to find their way to Bajor. Although his skills with physical healing had proven fairly mediocre, Force and all, Jacen had discovered that he had a knack for relieving stress and linger pain when sedatives and analgesics could not. By reaching out through the Force and gently touching the minds of his patients, he could ease discomfort and help overcome the debilitating aftereffects of trauma.

In addition to making himself feel useful and keeping his abilities practiced, the work had allowed him to spend a great deal of time with Laura, and the two had grown quite close. As far as Jacen could tell, she had been able to come to terms with the horrors she had faced on the doomed ship _Cornwall_ without any lasting mental damage. He was impressed by her resilience, but now that she was officially "recovered and recuperated", he found himself almost wishing her progress had been slower.

"You look great," he finally managed, meeting her gaze with only a trace of nervousness.

"I feel great. I had thought that putting this uniform back on would be hard, but now that I have…" She trailed off and looked down at her fresh tunic, black and gray with a gold trim. Delicately, she raised one hand to her collar and fingered the single copper pip that rested there. Laura's smile faded slightly, and she looked back up at Jacen, suddenly serious. "I want to get back to the fight. I want to help, Jacen, just like you've been doing, just like all of my friends… all of my family have done. I have to."

The Jedi nodded. "I understand. You must do what you feel is right, and the fleet needs all the strong, skilled officers it can get right now." He looked into her eyes with a deep intensity, but he did not reach deeper with the fortifying hand of the Force. He didn't need to. "And you are strong."

For a moment, neither of them spoke, motionless, oblivious to the crewers who bustled past.

"Thank you," Laura said at last. "Thank you for everything."

Jacen felt as though he should say something in reply, but no words came. All he could do was look at her, and she at him.

"All Federation Personnel, the _USS Versailles_ has taken up a holding position on our starboard side, and is preparing for transport. Those scheduled for the second shift rotation report immediately to Cargo Bay One for disembarkation."

Neither of them responded to the announcement immediately, continuing their weighted silence for a few more precious moments. Then, finally, Laura straightened her uniform.

"Well, that's my ship. I guess I should get going."

"Good luck," Jacen replied, as though startled. "I… we'll see each other again. Soon."

She smiled. "Count on it. And, how did you say it? May the Force be with you."

They traded glances for another second, and then Laura turned away, hurrying down the hall to join the trickle of other officers as they made their way towards the departure point. Jacen watched her until she disappear through a far hatch, and then moved to the smooth bulkhead, wearily leaning against it and kneading his hands together. A wrenching sensation rose in his gut, and he found himself looking back at the empty door frame plaintively. A familiar burning lit his cheeks.

The wrenching sensation intensified, and a bead of sweat rolled past Jacen's eye. There was something more to the feeling now, though, something different.

After a moment of confused recall, Jacen jumped to his feet, glanced at the hatch a final time, and then hurried in opposite direction down the hallway. He opened his senses, sliding back into the chorus of voices that was the warship's crew, and noted uneasily that their melody was tinged by faint, dark cords.

-----------------------------------------------------

"What in the Seven Hells is going on here?"

Truul stormed into the _Republica_'s main medbay, taking in the room with a few quick glances. Several of the analysis tables in the section's central chamber were engaged, but the medical attendants and droids who attended them were not occupied with wounded from the fleet. Two humans, an Ishi Tib, and a Mon Calamari, all in Alliance uniforms, were being treated for a variety of contusions and breakages. Around them and in adjacent rooms of the medbay, patients were conversing nervously.

As Truul approached the wounded Mon Cal, the Master Chief took up a position on the inside of the sickbay's door, hands at his hips, within easy reach of his sidearm. Scanning the room as the marine had done, he noted that the bed within a sequestered cubicle at the far side of the chamber seemed to have been damaged, and that several trays of medical equipment had had their contents tipped onto the floor.

The salmon-colored amphibian that Truul had singled out looked up from his table, and then shoed away the humanoid 2-1B that had been worrying over a sizeable gash on his sloped forehead. A small insignia on the breast of his loose, clean coat indicated that he was the ship's chief physician.

"Major."

"I noticed a crowd outside your door while I was on my way to the hangar deck," Truul said. "What's going on here?"

Gingerly, the doctor touched his freshly-sealed injury with a finned hand, and then swiveled his eyes towards the empty room that the Chief had noticed. "One of my patients, from the group that was transferred from the space station. Kira Nerys, I think her name was. Badly injured and prone to spasms for some reason I haven't been able to determine. She was unconscious, and we had her under observation in one of the op rooms. I sent an orderly to check on her a few minutes ago, and when he got close, she suddenly woke up and tore through her restraints. Several of us tried to calm her down, but she wasn't listening. She wanted to get out of the medbay badly, and none of us were able to stop her. I got this gash for my efforts."

He shook his head. "I've never seen anything like it. A wiry, invalid sentient with a musculature not far from baseline human tearing through limb bindings and battering half a dozen healthy adults to the ground. And all of it without a word. Judging by the look in her eyes, I'm not sure she even knew where she was."

"I was on guard duty here when the patient escaped." A marine had appeared at the major's side, his left arm in a splint. "I tried to subdue her, but she slammed me into a wall and ran out before I could recover."

The man paused briefly. "And she stole my sidearm, sir."

Truul glared at him, and then sighed. "So much for an on-time departure."

"Alright, notify the XO of the situation. We've got an armed hostile loose aboard ship, and I recommend that we go to alert status. Then get me the Watch Captain; I want all available units on this immediately. We can't let this woman get close to any other sensitive areas of the ship."

"Major!"

Truul turned to the medbay's entrance in time to see Jacen Solo skitter to a halt. Clutched in one of his hands was the silver hilt of a lightsaber.

"I think I know where she went."

----------------------------------------------------------

Jacen lead Truul and the Chief to a turbolift and then ordered down into the bowels of the ship, far below habitation decks and frequently-trafficked walkways. Frustrated by the young Jedi's lack of information on exactly where the runaway was beyond a general direction, Truul spent the short transit with his comlink shoved under his nose, attempting to coordinate with the _Republica_'s ranking security officer. The Master Chief waited in silence, apparently unconcerned about the delay in his transit to Deep Space Nine. As the lift reached its destination and its doors slid open, the soldier observed Jacen's grip on his hilt tighten, and he drew his own weapon.

Truul also drew his sidearm and returned his comlink to its belt. "Deck Eight, section B. There's nothing down here except systems ancillaries and power conduits. She must be lost."

"Or hiding," the Chief offered, stepping carefully into the cramped, empty hallway beyond. "We should proceed with caution."

Jacen peered down one length of the access way and then the other, identical lengths low-roofed, cable ridden deck, considered, and then turned to the right. "This way."

In addition to being cramped, the lower decks of the cruiser were both hot and noisy, separated from the ship's internal network of energy conduits, fuel mains, and thermal collectors by only a few meters of wiring and durasteel plate. The grated floor beneath their boots clanked and echoed with each footfall even over the ambient din, making stealth next to impossible. Fortunately, the group didn't travel far before a distant-sounding cacophony alerted them to a hatch, beyond which another dreary expanse stretched. The ranged sensors in the Chief's suit were rendered ineffective by their proximity to so much high-energy machinery, but his well-honed hearing told him that the sounds were muffled explosions.

"Looks like you're on to something, Solo. Alright, stay close, both of ya. And keep your weapons ready," Truul said, wiping sweat from his brow before crossing the adjoining hatch's threshold.

Not far down the passage, a pair of bodies came into view, sprawled on the deck next to a sealed hatch. One, an older human female, was dressed in technician's overalls, and a belt of hydrospanner and other equipment lay discarded at her side; the other was a lanky Devonian in the fatigues of Truul's marines. After scoping out the immediate area with his pistol, Truul knelt beside the soldier, felt for a pulse, and then delicately flipped him onto his back.

"Dead," he said, rising from the body after closing its blank, staring eyes. The Devaronian's chest was a mass of still-smoldering, carbonized flesh. "Heavy blaster hit at point blank range."

"Here," Jacen called from the woman's side. "She's still alive. I don't think she's badly hurt."

As if responding to the man's voice, the technician's eyes fluttered open and attempted to roll onto her side. Jacen gently raised her up against the bulkhead wall, inspecting a large bump on the back of her neck as he did.

"Can you hear me?" he asked.

Slowly, she nodded, and then looked up at the Jedi. "Yes. Yes, I can hear you. I think I'm alright." She tried to stand, faltered, and then fell back into Jacen's waiting arms. "Well, mostly. Just let me rest for a moment."

"Did a Bajoran woman do this to you?" Truul asked. "Thin, probably dressed in medical robes?"

The tech nodded. "Yes, she came just a few minutes ago, unless I've been out longer than I think I have. I was finishing up some maintenance in that junction room, just in that hatch, when she walked up and asked if the control circuits for the internal blast door network ran through there. It was a weird questioned, but I told her they did. Then, without a word, she made to go in. That struck me as even more odd, so I asked her what she was doing, and under whose authority. I guess that poor trooper on the floor over there happened by us while I was trying to stop her, and started demanding identification. The next thing I knew, there were blaster bolts flying through the air, and my spine tried to push its way into my skull."

Jacen, Truul, and the Chief looked at the sealed hatch the tech had indicated in unison, just as a new bombardment of sound rang out from within. Unlike the last clatter, however, this one was immediately followed by a momentary flickering of the hall's illumination and a noticeable change in pitch from one of the rumbling machines hidden in the plating below them.

The Chief cautiously approached the hatch, tried its handle and then tapped its access interface, all to no avail. "Locked."

Truul's comlink buzzed violently, and he lifted the device to his lips, keeping his gun hand trained on the closed door.

"Truul here."

"I hope you've found our escapee, Major," a dry, female voice said over the tiny speaker.

"We're close, Captain," Truul replied, apparently unsurprised by her knowledge and interest in the matter. "We've tracked her to junction room B-5 on Deck Eight, but she's sealed herself inside. I've also got a dead marine down here, and a wounded crewer. A security detachment would be appreciated right now, and engineering detail if you can spare one. Our blasters aren't going to be opening this hatch any time soon, and it sounds like she's doing some damage in there too."

"So we've noticed," Ryceed replied. "Operations is reading power fluctuations throughout the internal monitoring and defense grids. Your support teams are on their way. Just hold your position, and keep me informed. Ryceed out."

"You heard her," Truul said, lowering his communicator again. "Let's move them out of the line of fire." He indicated to the two crewmen. The Chief moved to help the living tech to her feet, but Jacen still lingered at the hatch. His face focused, almost trance-like, he placed his palm against the solid metal barrier.

"Why is she doing this?" he asked, more to himself than the others.

Truul grabbed the dead marine's shoulders and began to drag him out of the field of any potential fighting. "Who knows? She was on Deep Space Nine, and if I'm remembering names right, I was one of the ones who found her, right in the middle of the worst of it, barely alive. Surviving that kind of slaughter can leave all kinds of wounds that bacta can't fix. She probably just snapped. I've seen it happen half a dozen times before, and for a lot less reason."

Jacen shook his head. "No, I've felt breakdowns before. This is different, much deeper. I can feel her mind at work in there, but… there's something wrong about it." He paused, and then closed his eyes in concentration. "I can feel a darkness hanging over her, unlike any I've ever felt before. It's powerful, like… like a hunger. Driving, forcing her to do something. I just can't…"

His eyes shot open. "We have to get in there. Now."

Truul eyed him incredulously, but he withdrew from his grisly work and moved to the Jedi's side nonetheless. "Alright, alright. But I don't think we can get through this hatch without the engineering teams. We'd need a trained slicer to bypass this lock electronically, and the hatch looks likes it pretty well reinforced."

Jacen looked down at the weapon still clutched in his right hand.

Truul followed his gaze, and then stepped back. "Ah."

With a hiss that resounded down the hallway, a pillar of green light erupted from Jacen's clenched fist. He braced the weapon in both hands, set his feet, and then plunged the lightsaber's blade straight into the seam between the hatch and its bulky frame. The durasteel around the beam of energy glowed red, then white hot. Jacen gritted his teeth as a wave of heated air washed over him from the boiling metal, and then began to pull his weapon down along the door's right seam, leaving a fused, blackened trail in its wake. The cacophony beyond the bulkhead started anew, and the deck plates below their feet began to tremble perceptibly, but the young Jedi's concentration remained unbroken.

When he had drawn a swath nearly a meter in length, Jacen stopped, peered intently at the door as though he could perceive its internal workings, and then plunged his blade even deeper into the metal, to the point where its projection cone was almost flush with the pool of molten material. The hatch around the blade now glowed hot enough to combust any flesh that touched it instantly, and yet Jacen stayed within arm's reach, the heat shedding away from him in wavering sheets.

"Chief," he grunted. "The seam."

The Spartan moved behind the Jedi quickly and clamped onto melted line of metal with both hands. The alloy sizzled and distended beneath his armored fingers, but he held firm, and began to drag the hatch away from the wall. For a moment, it sat motionless, immovable even under their combined onslaught. Then, with a prolonged, wet rumble, a sliver of empty space appeared between the door and it's mounting, then widened to a crack. Jacen exhaled sharply, withdrew his weapon in a single, smooth motion, and stepped away from the hatch just as the super soldier tore through the weakened locking mechanism and let the door swing open on its reinforced hinge.

Truul was ready with his weapon trained on the new opening, with the Chief close behind, but Jacen still managed to get through the entryway first, ducking through the frame with his lightsaber still activated.

The junction room ran parallel to the adjoining walkway, and was constructed in the same, low, hall-like design. Its walls were covered with diagnostic panels, fuse cores, and circuit boxes, but the devices were now all but unrecognizable, pitted, splintered, and melted along with a large portion of bulkheads upon which they were mounted. Cast in the bleak illumination of the chamber's only remaining functional light fixture, a large hand blaster lay discarded on the floor, its barrel partially melted and poker hot. Nearby, flattened against the burned and sparking remnants of a control station, a woman stared at them with bloodshot eyes, her simple white garb torn and soiled.

"Stay where you are!" Truul ordered, leveling his pistol with the red-haired woman's chest.

Jacen placed an arm across the Major field of fire. "Wait! Let me talk to her! She's unarmed."

"You heard the doc's report, Solo. She's just as dangerous with her hands as that blaster." Truul grimaced as the Jedi walked past him, towards the stalk-still Bajoran. "Listen to me, blast it!"

"Kira," Jacen said slowly, ignoring the older man. "We're not here to hurt you. We just want to take you back to the medical bay, where you'll be safe."

The woman did not reply, and her face, contorted with pain or fear, remained unchanged. One hand closed reflexively over the burned, frayed remnants of a bundle of metallic wires that hung from the ruined terminal. Their jagged edges cut into her palm, and a trickle of blood began to drip onto the deck.

Jacen thumbed his lightsaber's control stud, and then slowly lowered its inactivated hilt, spreading his own arms in a gesture of goodwill. "There are doctors on their way now. Just stay where you are. We don't want to hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Kira's eyes suddenly met Jacen's, and her cracked, bloodied lips opened. "Let? You won't let? You can't stop her." The voice was small and fragile, barely more than a whisper.

"Jacen…"

The Jedi blocked out the Major's warning once again. "Whoever she is, I won't let her get you. It is my duty to protect people from darkness, like the one that hangs over you now. Trust me. I can save you from it. Just trust me."

Kira shook her head. "No. No, you can't. Nothing can stop her. Not when she's close… so close."

Tears welled in her eyes.

"But it doesn't matter now. Its over. I've done it. No more."

Kira let her arms fall to her sides. "I was weak. I couldn't stop her. But I won't let her have me any longer. Tell them… tell them that I broke free."

She looked into Jacen's eyes in silence for a moment longer, and then her gaze fell. In that instant, the Jedi felt a familiar, urgent pressure in the back of his mind, and his muscles tensed instinctively.

The Bajoran leapt from the wall and plunged straight towards Jacen. In her bloodied hand, a long, sharp piece of machinery she had wrenched from the wiring probed forward, aimed straight at his unprotected neck. The Chief fired a shot when she had crossed half the distance, but the luminescent bolt only grazed her shoulder, and she pushed onward, her speed undiminished. Before the either soldier could fire again, Kira was on top of Jacen, slashing at him all the strength her thin limbs could muster.

There was a flash and the sputter of evaporating blood.

Kira went limp, and her weapon clattered to the floor in a pool of deep red. She slumped against him, her face centimeters from his. The Jedi felt her last exhalation, saw her ridged nose twitch. The corners of her thin mouth crested into a smile. Then, as he looked on, life left the woman's eyes.

Trembling, Jacen let his lightsaber die, and then guided Kira's body to the deck, trying unsuccessfully to tear his gaze from the small hole that bisected her from sternum to spine. He laid the woman on her back, and then let himself fall into a sitting position next to her. Still shaking, he raised his hands before his face, and then clenched them. His eyes closed fast.

"You alright, Solo?" Truul was at his side, and the command in his voice was replaced by gruff comfort. "I don't think she got ya."

He placed a heavy hand on the Jedi's shoulder. "I should have brought her down before she reached ya. I'm sorry."

"No, it's not that. I'm not hurt," Jacen said, his eyes still closed.

"Alright. Just sit tight. I'll go see what's taking those support teams." Truul glanced at the fallen Bajoran one last time, shook his head once, and then disappeared into the hall.

After the Major had gone, Jacen slowly pulled himself to his feet, slipped his lightsaber back into its loop, and finally opened his eyes. He turned his gaze briefly to the Chief, staring as though something else filled his field of vision, and the looked back at Kira's body.

"She's close," he echoed at length. "Too close."


	41. Chapter Fifty Nine

**Chapter Fifty Nine**

"All decks have reported in, sir," the Operations officer said. "Re-supply is complete."

Captain Jean-Luc Picard leaned back in his command chair. "Very good, Lieutenant. And Engineering?"

"Commander La Forge reports that the last core readjustment improved warp core efficiency by eight percent. We are now running at ninety seven percent capacity."

Picard turned in his seat and looked up at the younger man. "Just ninety seven percent?"

The lieutenant's expression faltered. "That's what he reports, sir. If you require a higher efficiency level, I can raise the commander for you."

Picard smiled slightly. "No, no, Lieutenant. Ninety seven percent is perfectly satisfactory. Keep me informed of any further developments."

The man relaxed noticeably. "Aye, sir."

Settling back into his chair, the captain allowed the smile to linger on his lips. Ninety seven percent operating efficiency was indeed fully satisfactory, and well above fleet regulations. He was simply surprised that his chief engineer had not yet conjured up some method or another of improving the rating by another half percent or so. Geordi always pushed himself and his crew to do the impossible, especially when the need was the greatest. Still, this was a new ship for them both, full of it own quirks and eccentricities that would need to be considered. Looking around his new bridge, Picard felt similarly awkward.

The _Enterprise-E_'s command bridge was an angular half-circle dominated by a horseshoe of raised control stations and officer's posts, much like the analogous portion of his old command. Still, this new vessel was truly a ship of its time, and its interior was darker and more regimented, full of sleek metallic lines and black matte. The dimly-glowing emergency lights, the obvious armor-plating on the walls, the precisely refined Okudagram interfaces; this was a warship. For all its armament and all the battles it had seen, the _Enterprise-D_ had been an explorer first and foremost, and its interior had been designed to ease the rigors of lengthy expeditions for its crew. Picard remembered its sloping ceilings, wide viewports, and brightly-colored furnishings with more than a little nostalgia, both for the ship itself, and the time of peace that it had represented.

There was another aspect of that lost ship that he could never allow himself to forget as well. Of its thousand-strong complement of crew and passengers, only a handful remained. The rest were dead, victims of the Zerg menace, or confined somewhere in a galaxy too far away, officers and their families imprisoned for no crime that he could comprehend. Picard glanced at the unfamiliar faces around him and silently reaffirmed the vow he had made what seemed like so long ago.

He would get them back. All of them.

Picard sighed to himself. There were other vows he had to uphold now, though. The lives of billions lay upon the imminent campaign, and he couldn't allow himself to be distracted by what came after. But he would not forget.

The captain activated the personal interface mounted on the right armrest of his command chair and pulled up the _Enterprise_'s crew roster. Eight hundred officers and crew exactly, a full complement. With no small amount of chagrin, Picard noted that his was probably one of the only vessels in the Allied fleet with a full roster. Even with the recent influx of reinforcements and able recruits, there were simply too many positions to fill, and even many of the fleet's command ships were running on barely more than half their normal complement. Picard disliked the idea of being so well crewed when he could easily distribute a few hundred of his more skilled subordinates to other vessels, but Admiral Nechayev had convinced him of the necessity of having the _Enterprise_ as battle ready as possible. It wouldn't do to have the Federation's "returning hero" understaffed during their triumphant counterattack.

The politics of being one of the fleet's figureheads was swiftly becoming tedious, especially for someone who had disliked even attending Admiralty functions in years past, but the position did have some advantages nonetheless. Although Commander Riker was onboard the _Republica_ as the official Alliance liaison, the rest of the _Enterprise_'s old command staff had followed their captain. The newly-promoted Commander Data was ably meeting all expectations as his second-in-command, Geordi had seamlessly reintegrated into his role as Chief Engineer, and Deanna Troi was doing her best assess and mentally reinforce every member of the crew. Worf had also kept his post at Tactical, despite the urging of General K'Nera and Captain Torgor for him to take command of a ship of the Imperial Defense Force. The move had surprised Picard, but he suspected he knew the reason; Worf felt as he did about their lost crewmates, and he wanted to be sure of a part in their eventual rescue, a role induction into his people's fleet might interdict.

Picard cast a surreptitious glance at the Klingon as he instructed a lieutenant on the finer points of quantum torpedo combat. Although he appeared to be as stern and collected as always in his yellow-black tunic, Picard knew that a part of the tactical officer yearned to wear the black leather and metal plate of the Klingon fleet. His only sign of solidarity with his people was the ceremonial baldric draped across his shoulder, an ever-present part of his uniform, but one he seemed now to bear with an extra apportionment of pride. The familiar sight seemed to soften the unfamiliar, hard lines of the command deck, and Picard returned to his crew list with the hint of a smile still on his lips.

A few minutes later, as Picard was reviewing the service records of his new section chiefs, the bridge turbolift behind him slid open. The first to emerge from it was Commander Data, three bronze pips glinting from his collar. After him, stooping through the opening to accommodate his height, came High Templar Tassadar, draped as ever in his long, dark cloak.

Picard rose from his command chair and moved to greet them. "Tassadar. An unexpected pleasure." He bowed and the Protoss returned the gesture gracefully. The two had not had the opportunity to speak directly since Picard had returned from his mission to Romulus. "I thought you were on Deep Space Nine with the Strategic Assessment task force."

"I was," Tassadar replied. "And I shall return there shortly. However, before I do, we must speak. If you are to lead a fleet against the Zerg, then I must impart to you all I know of their tactics and deceptions. Even with the Alliance cruiser at your disposal, the Swarm's tenacity cannot be discounted."

"Tactical reports on known Zerg combat doctrine and behavior have been dispatched to every command officer in the fleet," Data said. "These reports were prepared with your advisement, were they not?"

Tassadar turned his gently-undulating eyes on the android. "They were. However, inanimate media does not always adequately convey the full importance of information. I wish to emphasize certain elements of my experience, lest they be overlooked. I do not doubt you captain's skill or perception, but far too many great warriors have fallen into the horde's ravening maw, some older and more seasoned than even I. No others will meet the same fate blindly, if my experience is of any worth."

"As always, Tassadar, your council is more than welcome," Picard said. "May my command staff join us?"

"They may."

"Very well, then." Picard moved to tap the combadge on his chest, but the ensign at the conn turned to him from her post before he could raise his hand.

"Sir, I'm picking up unidentified warp signatures on the edge of the system, bearing 234-011-454."

"Are any further reinforcements expected from that heading?" Picard asked.

Commander Data considered for a moment. "None have been noted in the arrival logs. However, they may have not transmitted their intensions to Allied Command, or ships from another approach vector may have been forced to readjust their course into the system."

"Check the warp signatures against all known starship drives," Picard ordered. There was a great deal of traffic throughout Bajor's star system, but travel in and out had become increasingly limited as fleet preparations reached a fever pitch. "Could it be a long-range patrol?"

"Negative," Worf reported from Tactical. "The starships are moving at warp eight point five, far faster than our standard patrols. Even if they were fleeing a Zerg force, they would have dispatched an alert transmission ahead of their arrival."

"The ships are moving into our sensor range, Captain," the helm officer relayed. "At their current speed, they'll be inside the Denorios belt in two minutes. Sir, I'm reading dozens of separate signatures."

Picard traded glances with his second, who then turned to Worf. "Yellow Alert."

As the bridge lights dimmed and tinted with the elevated alert status, an officer spoke up from the comm. "Sir, Admiral Nechayev is hailing us."

"Put her onscreen."

The chamber's main viewport flickered to life with the older woman's visage. Picard noted that the _Versailles_'s bridge was at a similar state of readiness.

"I trust you've detected them as well, Captain," Nechayev said.

"Yes, Admiral. The ships are unknown, then?"

"I just contacted K'Nera and the other fleet commanders, and none of them have heard of any more significant reinforcements headed our way, and certainly not in the numbers were reading from that group."

"I suggest we bring the rest of the fleet to alert status," Picard said.

"It's been done. We'll be ready for them when they come out of warp, whoever they are."

"The Swarm."

Everyone on the bridge turned their attention to Tassadar, who was suddenly standing quite still, his gaze fixed on something none of the others could see.

"You can sense the Zerg on the approaching vessels?" Nechayev asked.

"There is a mind at work there, but there is something closer as well."

"Closer?" Picard pressed.

"Within the fleet," Tassadar said. His pupils flickered with energy, and he drew back, as if in pain. "The Alliance cruiser."

"We must reach Captain Ryceed. Now."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shaggy, gray-tinged Wookiee in charge of the _Republica_'s main cargo bay scanned the small crowd of Starfleet and Bajoran personnel arrayed around him, sniffed loudly, and then began to say something in the growling-mumbling-howling dialect of his species. A heavily-patched silver TC-3 protocol droid situated nearby listened to the towering alien intently, and then translated for their audience in a reasonable approximation of English. Even the most basic of the Alliance ship's collection of protocol droids had taken a strong dislike to the portable, automatic translators that the Federation and their allies favored, and attempted to bypass them whenever possible.  
"Chief of the deck Dapaduuk requests your patience. He has been notified that the starship _Versailles_ has interrupted its normal operations, and is unable to transport at this time. He will now contact Operations control to recheck the status of those of you who are scheduled to depart."

"What's going on?" a junior Starfleet engineer demanded. "Why can't the _Versailles_ transport us?"

The droid's tinny voice duplicated the question in Dapaduuk's tongue, and then reproduced his response. "I'm afraid that Dapaduuk does not privy to that knowledge. He was informed that the Starfleet vessel was forced to break from its expected course, and is no longer able to initiate matter-energy transportation. He was told nothing else. He gives his sincerest apologies, and will relay any further information as it becomes available."

With that, the Wookiee grunted something to himself and returned to the crate of ration containers he had been inventorying before being interrupted. TC-3 remained in position, but its expressionless mask and obviously fatigued posture made the machine seem equally as distracted and inaccessible. The crowd of visiting technicians and officers, momentarily directionless, broke into small groups and shuffled to an out-of-the-way section of the expansive chamber. Out of place and with little else to do, they conversed with each other in quiet and nervous tones, occasionally casting furtive glances at their towering keeper, who, despite his assurances, didn't seem particularly interested in getting to the bottom of the delay. Most of the _Republica_'s crew was reasonably amiable with the natives who came onboard, but there were always a few with whom relations were strained. This reticence and suspicion was especially common when the topic of transporters came up; few of the hard-bitten rebels had taken a liking to the idea of being rendered into their component atoms and shot through space, and none of them had yet volunteered to test the system. Even Councilor Organa opted to take a shuttle when she traveled to and from Deep Space Nine.

Lacking colleagues to talk with or delayed duty schedules to complain about, Laura Martin found a quiet patch of deck and propped herself up against a stack of large, heavy cargo containers that dominated half of one high wall. She found to her surprise that the notation tagged in block script on their faces was in Federation Standard, not the strange, geometric lettering that the Alliance used.

"Surplus Yard Coridan, Epsilon Section. Class II re-crystallization equipment, starship-grade," one descriptive read. The ensign also recognized the numerals stamped on the corners of the crates; they indicated that the containers were made of a relatively dense, sensor resistant material used for protecting delicate machinery from radiation and other damaging factors. She vaguely recalled seeing a collection of similar boxes during a layover on Earth Spacedock shortly before the Zerg emergence.

Laura was absent-mindedly running a palm over the smooth, cool surface of one of the containers when a loud clang resonated throughout the chamber. Curious, she scanned the room to see if the small Alliance crew on duty in the cargo bay was moving any of their charges, but the handful of droids and aliens appeared to be searching the room for the origin of the sound as well. After a moment, the clang echoed again, and then a third time, and Laura was able to trace it to a crate identical to her own a few dozen meters away down the line. Something sounded from within the box again, and then from another next to it. Laura glanced at her companions, but they returned her nonplused look in kind.

When the noise returned, it was harsher and deeper, like something hard and sharp being scraped across the deck plate. When this sound became a continuous din, the Wookiee deck chief finally looked up from his work, and approached the line of containers. Before he had moved a meter, scraping and tearing noises began to resonate from more of the boxes, one after another, until each of the dozen, rancor-sized cubes was alive with an earsplitting racket. Something bashed violently against the inside of Laura's crate and she stumbled back from it, instinctively reaching for her hand phaser. Finding it missing, she withdrew even further, and tried to encourage the others to do so as well.

The sealing clamps on the rightmost crate buckled and then snapped free, causing one side of the thick-walled container to slam flat onto the deck. Something within chattered and hissed. Then a dozen of them screeched.

Laura ran.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

"I need a status report," Captain Ryceed said significantly. "Now!"

The trio of Operations coordinators worked their board furiously, collating comm transmissions and computer alerts from every centimeter of the light cruiser's 500 meter bulk.

"Were still trying to bypass the damage to the internal monitoring grids, sir," one of them reported, not taking the time to look up from her work. "But the junction room on deck eight is tied directly with two of the main diagnostic droid brains, and the other two are having a hard time picking up the slack. The damage we sustained to the slaved internal defenses has also shed onto the mainline comms for forward decks four and five. And we still can't raise the main cargo bays or barracks."

"I need internal communications reestablished," Ryceed pushed. "We can't have blackouts like this in the middle of a combat situation."

"We're trying, sir. All technical teams have been activated and are being dispatched to reroute key comm pathways, but it could still take some time to give you back full communications. I could try to temporarily switch the ship to a remote grid, but I don't think that the ship's computers could handle that volume of data directly for long. We'd have to cut back to essential communications only, and maintaining weapons coordination might be difficult."

Ryceed turned to the bridge's main holographic projector, a large circular pedestal mounted on the chamber's lower level. Presently, it displayed the outermost anterior orbitals of Bajor's planetary system, where the Allied fleet was rapidly forming a defensive line. As she watched, a squadron of frigates that the COM-scan interpreter identified as _Defiant_-class joined with an element of Romulan warbirds, and the two groups coalesced into a loose arrowhead formation, the frontline of the formative shell. The defense was an impressive one, already comprising more than fifty vessels, but it was also relatively uncoordinated; most of the fleet's command ships, like the _Versailles_ and the _Enterprise_, were on the other side of Bajor, along with the majority of the fleet. And many of those ships were in the middle of overhaul, re-supply, and repair; it would probably take half an hour to get the force up to full combat readiness.

The impending threat was not nearly as slow. Ninety vessels of every class and configuration had just dropped from warp, and were hurtling towards Bajor as fast as their drives would push them. The force was too small to have any hope of taking the planet, which meant that they had some other object in mind. It also meant, Ryceed realized as one of the ancillary tactical displays generated a facsimile of one of the lead ships, a patchwork of deep gashes, bizarre and half hazard repairs, and all too organic protrusions, that whatever Zerg mind was controlling the fleet didn't expect to pull many of its minions from the fray alive. That made the commandeered craft all the more dangerous.

"No, we can't afford any disruption to weapons control. Just get the mainline bypasses functional. I'll send Commander Gavplek to coordinate the repair effort from the aft command station."

The _Republica_'s captain caught her XO's attention, and the two exchanged a few quick words. Acknowledging her orders, Gavplek located one of his lieutenants and the two hurried off for the bridge turbolift.

Next, Ryceed moved to the main Communications control, where Commander Riker and a few Alliance officers were staring at a flickering 2D linkup.

"Have you been able to raise Councilor Organa or Allied Command?"

A Sullustan comm officer shook his squat head. "We're trying to bypass the planetary mass by linking with the planet's satellite network, but there's a great deal of interference due to the amount of traffic it's had to accommodate. We should be able to contact Deep Space Nine in under a minute."

"What's the tactical situation?" Riker asked, turning to face Ryceed.

"It could be worse. The fleet should be able to meet the Zerg force on even footing by the time they reach us, and all the civilian ships on this side of the planet are being drawn behind the defensive line. Still, Picard, K'Nera, and Nechayev are still out of range, and most of the fleet with them."

"What about the internal damage?"

"It's being handled," she said simply.

"Alright, then," Riker said, tugging on his shirt reflexively. "We should move the Republica to the front of the defensive formation. She alone should be able to take the punch out of this incursion, and absorb most of the damage the Zerg might otherwise be able to do. Besides, the fleet needs a rallying point, at least until Captain Picard and the others arrive."

"Agreed," Ryceed replied without hesitation.

Riker stared at her, obviously surprised.

"What?" she asked, frowning. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, sir. Nothing at all." Riker turned away, but Ryceed could swear she saw him grin as he did.

She suddenly felt flustered. Riker could be incredibly exasperating, but Ryceed was finding it more and more difficult to manifest much genuine annoyance within him, despite her best efforts.

_You're going soft, Imal. The Feds are getting to you._

"Alright, I want our squadrons in vacuum. Tell General Solo to take them to the head of the battle line and integrate with the Allied formation. The _Republica_ will join him as soon as internal communications have been restored."

The Captain's orders were relayed, and within a minute twenty six pinpricks of light roared away from the cruiser's lateral landing bay. The two squadrons of starfighters, with the _Millennium Falcon_ at their head, were automatically etched into the light display that dominated the chamber, and she watched as the tiny, blue bezels swiftly closed the distance between themselves and the bulk of the defensive fleet. Beyond their loosely conical wall, on the very edge of the holographic projector's imaging field, the first hostile blips began to appear.

"The Zerg force will be within weapons range of the Allied formation in forty five seconds," a tactical officer reported.

Ryceed nodded in recognition, and then made for the short flight of stairs that would bring her down next to the display, where Riker now stood, assessing the situation with intense focus. However, before she had reached the top step, warning lights and signals rippled across several of her control boards, triggering a new flurry of activity amongst the command crew.

"Captain, I have Sergeant Kendic on one of the functioning comm lines," the officer at the auxiliary Security post said loudly, his voice apprehensive. "He's issuing a station one alert."

Ryceed froze, and some of her subordinates began to murmur nervously. Station one was the ship's highest state of readiness, only activated during times of pitched battle, when the threat of injury to the _Republica_ and her crew was great. It was customary for a captain or executive officer to innate it for combat, or even a member of the technical crew if there was a significant enough internal failure, but it was very unusual for a member of the ship's marine detachment to order it. Such a directive from the on-duty Watch Captain could only mean one thing: hostile boarders.

Ryceed seized the nearest comm stud. "I need confirmation, sergeant. What is your situation?"

"Zerg, sir," a strained voice panted from over the line. "I started getting reports of hostiles on deck four, forward section just after the problems with internal security started. One of my teams just confirmed; we have Zerg onboard ship, and they're spreading."

Ryceed's expression was stiff. "How many, Sergeant? Are they confined to deck four?"

"I don't know, sir. Surveillance for that deck is down, as are all but a few of my men's comlinks. I've got confirmed reports of at least seven of the creatures in lateral corridors 403 and 405, and unconfirmed contact on deck three."

"Can you contain them?"

"I don't even know where they're coming from, sir! They just… appeared a few minutes ago and started spreading out, tearing into anyone they come across. I think they might be heading somewhere, but…"

"Can you contain them, Sergeant?" Ryceed repeated.

"I've dispatched all the troops I've got to the main transit points on deck four, and I'm trying to recall the ones I sent after Major Truul, but I can't be sure some Zerg haven't escaped further into the ship. Communications are a mess, and most of the automated defenses in this portion of the ship are still offline. Still, my men have been sealing blast doors wherever they can and setting up turrets at chokepoints. As long as there aren't too many of these things, we should be…"

A burst of static interrupted Kendic's assessment.

"Get him back!" Ryceed demanded.

"We've lost contact within one of the remote comm repeater nodes," an officer reported, typing something furiously into his interface. "I'm trying to switch your link to an independent emergency channel."

A moment later, the static cleared.

"Captain?"

"I'm here, Sergeant," Ryceed said. "Something happened to another one of our comm nodes."

"Sir, I just heard from one of my containment teams. The Zerg are doing more than just hunting down crewmen. They came across a conduit line for the starboard laser grid, completely trashed, and they're not the only ones. Every junction box and power line the intruders come across, they attempt to destroy. And I think that some of them might be heading even deeper into the ship. We're sealing off the turbolifts as fast as we can, but if they manage to get into even one of the tubes, they could reach Engineering, Medical, Life Support, and the Bridge in only a few minutes."

Ryceed barely had time to take this in before a shout rang out from Tactical. "The enemy battle group is altering its approach vector!"

The comm stud still raised to her lips, Ryceed turned back to the battle display. The host of crimson stars that was the invading force, once a formless wave united only in common direction, was executing an eighty degree turn away from and over the Allied fleet and Bajor beyond. Its new heading placed the careening mass on a course that bisected the orbital path of the tiny, uninhabited moon Derna, and then angled it out of the system. A single point of light fell into their new path.

The _Republica_.


	42. Chapter Sixty

**Chapter Sixty**

Leaving the handful of marines and techs that had answered Truul's call for backup to handle the damage and the wounded, the Major, Jacen, and the Master Chief were packed once again into a turbolift together, this time heading for deck one, and the bridge. When Truul had attempted to ascertain why less than half the number of reinforcements he had expected had actually arrived to secure the ruined junction room, his comlink had given out without reason, as had those of every other crewer in the vicinity. He had tried to raise the bridge on a remote, emergency channel, but that too had been overwhelmed by static and disrupted after only a few moments of contact. Truul could only assume that the damage Kira had done in her madness was more extensive than he had originally anticipated, and had somehow overloaded the ship's comm repeaters.

"I knew I shoulda assigned independent comlinks to the crew when we came onboard," he grumbled, more to himself than the others. "These spacers always depend too much on their ships. One blasted problem, and they can't even talk to each other."

The motile compartment began to slow, and Truul breathed out a sigh. "Ah well, taking this straight to the source should speed it up, in any event. I'm not to keen on being debriefed by remote, and we've got places to be."

"This isn't the command deck," the Master Chief said. He couldn't read the symbols displayed on the lift's internal interface, but he had ridden in the compartment enough to develop a feel for it, with armor or without. They were stopping too quickly, too abruptly.

Truul glanced down at the control panel. "You're right, we're two decks short. I know I put this thing on an express track to the bridge. What's…"

An instant before the lift came to a full stop, a flash of intuition hit Jacen, and he swept the lightsaber from his belt, igniting it in the same fluid motion.

"Back!" he yelled, just as the bowed door slid open.

A blast of rancid, wet air billowed into the small chamber, followed immediately by an equally gut-wrenching snarl. Filling the lift's exit from deck to ceiling, a creature that was both animal and weapon leered at them with tiny, lidless red eyes. Reared up on its snake-like lower half, the beast "stood" nearly three meters in height, a ridged mass of thick, reddish-brown chitin and bony plate upon which were fixed a pair of long, scythe-tipped arms and a colossal, fanned skull. This head, more nightmare mask than living visage, was adorned by a protruding, detached jaw, dozens of uniform fangs less than a meter from Jacen's bloodless face.

For an instant, the Jedi's world froze. Each of his senses focused on the threat before him, and he could suddenly discern everything about the creature. He felt its damp breath, heard the grinding of its slung jaw as it flexed in anticipation, saw the muted hue of blood stained across one scimitar-like claw. He could see, too, beyond its predatory eyes, into the harsh, confusing chamber that was its mind. Jacen had encountered many strange animals on more worlds than he could recall, but he had never touched one that resonated in the Force so disconcertingly. Instinct, primal emotion, and basic desire all coalesced to drive the warrior beast, but they were but a shell, emissaries to the body, but ungoverned by it. Another power drove them, sheltered deep within the creature's limited consciousness.

Hunger. Malice. All for one, and one alone.

The flash of clairvoyance dissipated before Jacen could even begin to process it, but it did leave him with a single, pivotal thought.

"Against the walls!"

Even as he uttered these words, Jacen began to brace himself, hunching closer to the lift's floor and bring both his lightsaber and his free hand in front of him. As he did, the Zerg creature swelled up to an even greater height, puffing out its chest cavity with a whine of transient air and chitinous plate. Its massive head lifted to towards the ceiling, revealing a pair of hard, ribbed plates that covered most of its long torso. Above this armor, a fleshy sac bulged forth, inflated by the intake of atmosphere.

A dozen minute tears appeared in the reddish mass, and abruptly the air was filled with a barrage of bony spines. Polished white, covered in a membrane of mucus, and tipped with points finer than needles, the hail of organic missiles crossed the space between the Zerg and Jacen in a split second. Rather than tearing through the unarmored human like so much uncooked meat, however, most of the spines diverted course fractionally, as if caught by a powerful wind. The bolts whistled past the Jedi's head and chest, narrowly missed Truul and the Chief, who were still reacting to Jacen's sudden command, and impacted the car's curved rear wall. Each hit with the report of a gunshot, and a few nearly perforated the metallic surface before coming to a halt, a testament to their lethal capacity.

Ignoring the pair of cuts on his left arm left by spines he hadn't quite been able to deflect, Jacen lunged forward, bringing his saber hilt to his chest and then slashing horizontally at the attacking creature's center mass. It reared back with incredible speed for its size, but was unable to completely evade the glowing pylon of green energy. A long scar of charred exoskeleton just below the creature's spine sac provoked a piercing, clattering screech, but for all its rage, the animal's thick covering seemed to have protected it from injury.

Jacen closed distance with the beast again, but was unable to raise his lightsaber for another slash before Zerg brought its own blades to bear, bring them across at the Jedi from both sides. Still confined by the turbolift aperture, Jacen could not dodge under the blows, so instead he went up; a Force-enhanced leap brought him level with the beast's hard, left shoulder. Unable to recover from its failed death embrace quickly enough, the Zerg could do nothing but jerk back violently as Jacen slid over its armored torso, spun around as he fell towards the ground, and planted his lightsaber a patch of flesh exposed between its shoulder and neck plates.

The creature's spiny tail leapt up to meet the falling Jedi, and its chinked underside slammed him into a nearby bulkhead before he could regain his footing. It swung about to face its incapacitated prey, but, as though it only then felt the narrow shaft of cauterization that slit it from flank to flank, reeled back onto its own tail with a muted scream. Then, with a few lazy swings at the empty air and a single grind of its powerful teeth, it collapsed and was still.

Blocked from view previously by the creature's bulk, a pair of smaller beasts peered at their slain comrade apprehensively. Vaguely canine in form and size, they were burly masses of jagged plates and livid skin, each with a pair of odd, clawed appendages sprouting from their backs like overgrown spider legs. The two seemed to peer at each other for confirmation, their tiny eyes barely visible over faces filled with jaws even more terrible than those of the larger minion, and then they turned their focus in unison towards Jacen, who still lay against the fall wall, struggling for breath after the powerful blow.

The Zerg took a few tentative steps towards the human, and when he did not immediately leap up to rebuff them, they grew bolder and began to lope down the narrow hallway, their clawed antenna undulating in concert with their steps. Jacen watched them come, desperately forcing himself up against the wall and reaching out for his lightsaber, which had been knocked from his grip by the towering beast's final blow. He found it, lying on the deck several meters away, beyond the lifeless Zerg corpse. Jacen reached out for it, felt it nudge towards his hand. The two quadrupeds were almost upon him. His weapon was too far.

As the leading creature tensed its haunches in preparation for the final leap, two lambent bolts alighted upon its midsection. The scaly surface lit with combustion, and the beast tumbled onto its side, momentum carrying the twitching form nearly another meter before it finally came to a stop. Its companion bayed in outrage, but it too was stricken by crimson energy, and fell to the deck with equal swiftness.

Looking ins the direction from which the blaster fire had come, Jacen stared at his own muted reflection, captured in the Master Chief's rounded faceplate. The soldier held out a gauntleted hand, and the Jedi took it gratefully, pulling himself fully to his feet.

"Nice work," the Chief commented, gently nudging one of the larger beast's forelimbs with his boot.

"You too," Jacen said, and then retrieved his lightsaber hilt from the scuffed floor.

"Hydralisk." Truul joined them, his blaster still at the ready. "That's what Tassadar called 'em. Nasty creatures. A few of them nearly tore up a few of my boys on Deep Space Nine. This one's bigger than those, though, and I never saw any of them move that fast."

"The smaller Zerg are different as well," the Chief noted. "They're tougher and bulkier than any I've encountered before."

"Well, I guess this would explain why I haven't been able to raise anyone above decks for the last few minutes," Truul said. "I'm willing to bet that this lot wasn't all of 'em."

"How could they have gotten onboard?" Even as he voiced the question, Jacen reached out into to the surrounding ship, searching for minds and threads of activity that might answer it. He found only a clutter of rampant emotions, fear, confusion, and bitter determination intermixed with the unsettling, hollow presence that emanated from the Zerg.

"Haven't a clue, but if they're this far into the ship's habitation section, the security detail probably isn't having much luck sealing off the source. The damage that Bajoran inflicted to the internal system probably didn't help. Whatever's going on, the captain is going to need our help getting a handle on the situation. Looks like your Fed students will have to wait a little while longer, Chief."

The Spartan checked the ammo indicator on his sidearm.

Truul nodded. "Alright, let's see if we can't hook up with some of the crew and get a picture of the tactical."

It didn't take very long for the eerie silence of the corridor, which Truul identified as being only several below the bridge, to be broken by the sound of combat. Coming around a turn, the trio found a few crew members hunched behind a large supply crate, directing the fire from a handful of pistols and rifles down the long hallway. At least ten of the smaller beasts, Zerglings, were tearing up the narrow space towards them, pining loudly as they leapt over abandoned barricades and shattered corpses, humanoid and quadruped alike. Behind them, a pair of Hydralisks seemed to be preoccupied with a forcefully exposed wall conduit, and were peppering it with a hail of razor spines.

A single Alliance marine stood out of cover in front of the oncoming pack, punching commands into a wall interface as the others covered her, picking off as many Zerglings as they could manage. She tapped a final key, and a thick blast door began to close across the hall. Squeezing off a few parting blast from her own sidearm, the marine retreated from the panel for the crate. Before she made it to cover, however, an explosion sounded from the hall, and the overhead lights began to flicker. Something heavy sounded from within one of the walls, and the blast door stalled. Cursing, the marine turned back for the control, but found her path blocked by a glowering monstrosity that had pulled itself through the barrier's gap.

A blaster bolt from one of the crewers burned off several of its raised back scales, but the creature did not retreat from its intended victim. The marine aimed her weapon at the thing's head, but a lightening strike from one of the Zerg's bizarre dorsal appendages knocked the weapon from her hand. The second clawed limb swung at her chest, but before it could find its mark, the whole beast found itself skittering back across the deck for the stalled blast door. Snarling, the Zergling attempted to shake off the unseen attacker, but a volley of blaster bolts put an end to resistance before it crossed under the threshold.

As Truul raced forward and reactivated the lockdown protocol, Jacen dragged the wounded marine back to the waiting arms of the other crewers, one of whom had already produced an emergency medkit.

"Much appreciated," she said as someone bound her injured hand and applied a local anesthetic. "I'm guessing that that thing didn't just decide it wasn't hungry anymore and turn back. You must be that Jedi I've been hearing about. We could have used more like Commander Skywalker back on Hoth, but I'm damn glad you're here now, sir."

Jacen smiled and nodded at the complement, but did not reply. The mention of the rout at Hoth made the Jedi remember that the woman he was speaking to was probably a grandmother in the world he knew, if she had survived the Galactic Civil War at all.

"Private." Major Truul kneeled down next to them and scanned the soldier's simple dressing. "You alright?"

"Yes, sir. They always told me I was a bad shot, anyways. This can only improve my aim."

"Glad to hear it, because we might still need ya. Now, I want to know what's going on here. Everything."

The marine recounted everything that had happened in the last few minutes: the internal security failures, the sudden communications blackout, the Zerg outbreak, rumors of a battle raging outside the ship's hull. Truul listened to it all in silence, his expression stony. The others kept close watch on the empty hallway behind them, and the sealed bulkhead, against which the sound of fevered scrabbling could still be heard.

When the soldier's account was through, one of the crewers spoke up. "Major, before I got separated from my repair detail, we were working on one of the primary monitoring nodes on this deck. As far as I could tell, the intruders are doing their best to neutralize the _Republica_'s offensive capabilities. After they severed internal comms, we started seeing major fluctuations in the main deflector and laser power feeds. At the rate they were working, we might be dead in space by now."

Truul nodded. "They're planning something."

"We should make for the main bridge," the Master Chief said. "Command and control has to be preserved if an attempt to retake the ship is to be made, and they may still have some intact comm systems."

"Right. The bridge is only a few decks up, anyways, although we'll have to take the maintenance crawlways. I don't want to get pinned in one of those cars with a Hydralisk breathing down my neck again. There should be an access conduit a few sections down this corridor."

The group gathered itself up and began to make its way back down the left length of the isolated stretch. The Chief and Truul took point, with the crewers and the injured marine behind, and Jacen bringing up the rear.

"This is yours, I think," Jacen said to the soldier, handing her the blaster that the Zergling had knocked from her grip. She grasped it in her left hand and sighted it experimentally.

"This'll have to do. Thank you, sir."

"You don't have to call me 'sir'. I don't really deserve it. My name is…"

Jacen stopped abruptly, his eyes widening. He turned back and peered down the hallway, searching it for something.

"Sir?" the soldier asked.

"You said that the outbreak originated somewhere inside the ship. Where?"

"Well, as far as I know, no one is exactly sure, but I did hear the sergeant mention something about the main cargo bay during the last comm dispatch before the lines went dead."

"The cargo bay…" Jacen whispered to himself, still staring off down the hall.

"Why, sir? What's wrong?"

"Tell the Major that I'll regroup with you as soon as I can. I need to check something."

With that, the Jedi began to run back the way they had come, ignoring the soldier's confused shouts and warnings. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Why had he been so distracted? As Jacen tore around a corner, he desperately hoped he could remember the way to the ship's main hold. There was no time for wandering, if there was any time left at all.

----------------------------------------------------

The creature had no name. It had no identity, and no sense of self. It had those things once, but they were utterly forgotten, less than faded memories. It was an appendage now, a slave to another in every way that an organism could be enslaved. It was barely even a distinct entity, defined only by the sagging, unkempt boundary that was its skin.

To one foreign to the trials that it had endured, the thing, or any of the half dozen other beings that were attached to the bridge of a warship that had once too had a name, a history, a crew and captain, the creature might have appeared to be any number of things. It was undeniably alive, pulsating, twitching, breathing in the shallow, vestigial manner of something that really does not need to breathe, but beyond that, it bore little resemblance to any lifeform encountered in the collective experience of the peoples who had constructed the warship upon which it sat. It could have been a plant, for it never moved from the broken and dirty seat on which it was rooted by knotted strands of scaly flesh. Perhaps an insect; the sharp, russet protrusions that burst from its withered skin certainly had the appropriate quality. More than either, though, it bore the appearance of an animate corpse, a marionette that existed only by the bizarre providence of some greater power.

In truth, it was all these things, but in true function it was something else entirely, and that was all that mattered. It was a hand.

Without knowing why, or needing to know why, the thing raised its naked arms, heavily blistered but still separate from the bloated mass that its body had become, and placed them upon an adjacent interface. Neural impulses stimulated by a mind a thousand miles away moved fingers in a precise, almost mechanical fashion, a series of strokes and taps that meant nothing to the body that performed them. Other creatures nearby, bonded to the ship by grotesque chains of sinew and lack of will, carried out different motions on different interfaces, equally oblivious of their own hands. This soundless symphony fired conduits and triggered electrical signals throughout the warship's artificial brain, uncorrupted but a slave all the same, and it in turn compelled devices interspersed throughout the hull to project an invisible bubble of energy around the mass of metal and flesh.

The creatures did not know that an instant after that shield was raised, a storm of phaser fire nearly brought it down again. The tremors that shook the vessel to its very core did not phase them. Another explosion overloaded an interface violently, lashing one organic instrument with a shower of burning sparks and jagged particulate; it simply bypassed the damaged circuits and continued on with its noiseless work, oblivious the lacerations that bloodied its already scarred features.

Another entity, seated before a tactical display, saw without seeing the large, vaguely tubular vessel that a previous course correction had aligned them with. The visual signal went unprocessed by the creature's brain, but another mind did read it, and soon after the thing and its companions were set to their controls once more.

The warship, and dozens of others like it, moved closer to their target, some firing blindly at the host of more lively constructs that pursued them, others utterly focused on their prize. The larger starship remained still, as though waiting for the single-minded swarm to arrive. Its weapons blisters, capable of swatting any of the vessels arrayed against it in an instant, were silent. Its deflector shield generators, capable of withstanding any onslaught the foe ships could muster, were inactive. By all outward appearances, the vessel was dead, heartless and cold as its suitors truly were.

The beating of Laura's heart filled her head. When she tried to think, the constant pounding shattered her concentration. When she tried to move, the booming only increased, and terror stayed her. She could not feel the cool metal around her, or taste the saltiness of her dry lips; all she could perceive was the deafening beat. That, and the scene that filled her vision.

A thin fog of acrid smoke filled the air, unmitigated by the meager efforts of atmospheric purifiers that flickered on and off with the cargo bay lights and the distant explosions that sent faint tremors across the gray deck. Small fires still burned unchecked where data terminals and maintenance accesses once stood, their exposed wiring sparking occasionally with undirected energy. The cloud stung Laura's eyes and obscured her vision, but she did not care. What she saw could not be diminished by such an inconvenience.

The deck was littered with bodies. Between stacks of cargo containers and claw-gouged machinery, more than a dozen inert forms lay in various states of contortion and desecration. Some were draped over smashed droids or the bodies of their comrades, dispatched by deep slashes or lethal barbs. Others were virtually unrecognizable, heaps of bones and flesh mired in pools of smeared fluid. All, however, bore mementos of their final moments. Hands half-clasped upon weapons, bodies cut down mid-flight, faces drawn into masks of fear.

Laura had seen the scene before, and now all the deep, terrible feelings that the prior experience had inflicted upon her had returned, amplified all the more by the closeness of the carnage. Sheltered under the overturned wreck of a repulsor crane, which she had stumbled under more by instinct than conscious thought as the world around her dissolved into blood, she was a prisoner, alone with ice-cold dread that had become her mind. She had not seen one of the monstrosities for some time, how long she could not tell, but fear still confined her. Fear of both claws and teeth, and of the lifeless creatures that lay along the path to escape.

She would not leave the safety of the chance alcove, could not. Even if Laura was armed, and the demons that now crept through the _Republica_'s halls were somehow crippled, she could not summon the will to enter into the terrible place again alone. She would stay there, hidden, until the world around her turned to ash. It was all she could do.

A gasp of labored breath sounded close by, and Laura recoiled deeper into her ruined space. She clenched her teeth and wedged herself into a fetal position, waiting for the searing pain and ensuing darkness. She could almost feel the blood-sullied spears of bone slicing her skin and piercing her to the core.

The wheeze came again, faint and fading, almost imperceptible against the pounding within her chest. The sound still terrified Laura, but after the scythes of the hunting demons failed to rip her from her protective shell, she managed to open an eye and scan the space before her for its source. There was no Zerg beast there; the chamber still seemed devoid of life. Then she saw it, a body not three meters from the low, cluttered opening beyond which she was crouched. It was the Wookiee deck chief Dapaduuk, and his thickly-furred and blood-matted chest was rising and falling, if only slightly.

A ray of awe worked itself into Laura's mind. She had seen the towering Alliance soldier beset by five of the invading creatures. Fearsome even without a weapon, the Wookiee's huge paws had rent one of the smaller attackers nearly in two and stressed the bladed arm of a larger creature almost to breaking. Nevertheless, weight of numbers and the ferocity of the Zerg onslaught had overwhelmed him, and he had been brought to the floor by more than a dozen vicious slashes and rending bites. The sentient's hide was virtual patchwork of open wounds, each of which was still hemorrhaging dark liquid. And yet, he was still alive.

A hiss and clatter of nailed feet echoed from one of the adjoining halls. Fear gripped Laura once again, and she began to retreat further into her hiding space, but just as she did, breath once more racked the Wookiee's body, and his left arm twitched. The alien's lips, gashed by a deep cut, drew back haltingly, and a low groan emanated from beneath broken rows of teeth.

Laura stared at the Wookiee for a long moment. She remembered the _Cornwall_, seeing friends and colleagues torn apart and left on the bloodied ground, dying and without hope. She remembered the fear, the confusion, the helplessness she had felt as each one died. She remembered her own flight, her feet and blind fortune snatching her from a fate that no other had escaped.

She remembered the distorted reflection of her own face in the face plate of one of her saviors, twisted so by fear and self pity that she thought a moment that it was one of the monsters that hounded her.

Slowly, cautiously, Laura crawled from the cover of the wrecked vehicle. On her hands and knees, ignoring the sticky wetness that soaked her palms and uniform, she moved the Dapaduuk's side. Gingerly, she touched a massive, hairy shoulder.

"It'll be alright," she whispered. "I've got you."

The Wookiee made an indecipherable noise and turned his battered head fractionally towards her.

"Quiet now. I'm going to have to move you. Hold on."

Quickly assessing the considerable damage to the massive creature's upper body, Laura positioned herself behind the Wookiee's neck, propped its lolling head on her chest, and grasped him beneath each arm. Inhaling deeply, she tugged on the limp mass, found herself unable budge it a centimeter, repositioned, and tried again. This time, the Wookiee slid back with her fractionally, but as soon as she stopped to gasp for another breath, he loosed a guttural howl of pain. It was a weak cry, but loud enough to reverberate into every corner of the chamber and beyond. The footfalls in the hallway ceased.

Pushing down the wave of fear that tempted her to drop the wounded soldier and flee back into her dark cave, Laura strained once more against Dapaduuk's impressive weight. He moved with her again briefly, and again a fevered cry escaped his lips.

Laura was about to whisper something, more to bolster her own resolve than silence the pained Wookiee, when a shadow leapt up suddenly on the deck before them. Looking up, she saw the forms of two slithering Hydralisks, backlit by a fallen floodlight, as they made their way into the hold. The beasts did not rear up and scan the chamber for prey or fall into covert, stalking movements; they saw their intended victims, and cared not if they were seen in turn. Mindless minions or no, instinct told them both that their next meal was to be an easy one.

Laura did not attempt to flee as they approached. The Zerg saw her now, and a bent pile of machinery would not keep them from their prize, even if she could reach the overturned repulsor pad before their jaws found her. She simply watched, and let the feeling drain from her limbs, resigned to the inevitable. Certainly, fear was still with her, but she found that next to the fear that had nearly kept her from reaching out to the Wookiee, the pain that this new terror inflicted was bearable. She had conquered one fear, only to find another that was unconquerable; perhaps, she thought ruefully as the twin predators moved closer, there was some small solace in that irony.

The Hydralisks closed past the range of their spine sacs, instead allowing their exposed jaws to fall open and raising their scimitar claws in anticipation. One gurgled joyfully and locked eyes with Laura, as though claiming her as its particular share of the find. She returned the cold gaze unflinchingly.

Fanning out on either side of the Wookiee and the human, the two Zerg coiled their hind sections and leaned close, until Laura could have reached out and touched her hunter had she had the energy or inclination. The Hydralisk was so enraptured by its target that it failed to notice the blur of motion that appeared at the entry hatch through which it had emerged, nor the flash of green light that accompanied it. This ignorance would likely have continued for some time, but a loud rush of warped air current managed to elicit the creature's attention, and it turned its massive head towards the doorway in time to catch a glimpse of a flattened, lambent disk of green, just before it sailed smoothly into the beast's sloped forehead.

It took the other Hydralisk only a second to sense that something was amiss, but in that time the blur had crossed the distance between them, and had already retrieved its glowing blade from the smoldering chasm that it had left in the first Zerg warrior. Before the slain creature could even fall onto the deck, the blur resolved into the form of a man dressed in black and leapt over Laura and her charge, directly on top of their remaining foe.

The Hydralisk unleashed a volley of spines before its attacker could reach the ground, but the man changed his trajectory in midair, deftly dodging the onslaught and landing behind it. The creature's muscular tail whipped up to meet the human, but he vaulted over the strike and lunged at the Zerg's undefended back. The lightsaber bit into dense chitin, but the Hydralisk managed to jerk to the side away from the blow, leaving behind a large chunk of its exoskeleton plate. Screeching, the beast slashed at the man with an enormous claw, almost toppling onto its back in order to do so.

A flash of illumination separated the talon blade from its arm. Another flash separated the Hydralisk from half of its skull.

As the second creature joined its companion on the plated floor, Jacen Solo straightened from his combat stance, keyed the pommel of his blade off, and then collapsed to one knee, breathing heavily. The engagement had lasted less than ten seconds.

Numbly, Laura stared at her savior, oblivious to the Wookiee's weight upon her legs or the cool sweat that drenched her brow. She opened her mouth to speak, but a chorus of surprise, blind relief, lingering fear, and something else entirely echoing in her mind left her mute.

His breathing finally slowed, Jacen looked up at the woman, and then began to rise. The young Jedi winced visible, and a hand clapped onto his thigh, where a long sliver of red welled from under his black garb.

"Are… are you alright?" Laura tried to move towards him, but found herself still pinned by Dapaduuk's bulk.

Jacen nodded quickly, and then raised his hand. The cut was still emblazoned wetly upon his skin, but the flow of blood was swiftly diminishing, thickening under the gentle caress of the Force.

"Don't worry about me. Are you alright? I came as soon as I realized what was going on."

"I'm not hurt."

Jacen attempted to look around the room, but his eyes never quite left Laura's gaze. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry I couldn't get here any sooner. Are any of the others…?"

The feeling returning to her extremities, Laura was suddenly aware again of the Alliance crewer's thick, warm blood upon her hands and uniform. "Yes. Yes, he's still alive. He was wounded pretty badly, though. I'm not even sure how he's still breathing."

Tearing his gaze from the woman, Jacen moved quickly to the Wookiee's outstretched form, which was still moving with occasional, haggard inhalations. He laid each hand gently upon the alien's chest and peered at his scared face, reaching out for the pain-racked consciousness within. After a moment, he looked back at Laura, worry obvious on his face.

"We need to get him to a bacta tank. I might be able to keep him breathing for a little while longer, but he's lost a lot of blood, and I'm not skilled enough to maintain him like this."

"There's a turbolift just outside the bay," Laura said. "Could we get him to the medbay?"

Jacen shook his head. "The Zerg have gotten into the lift network, it's not safe. And the medbay may have already been overrun, anyways. I'm sensing fighting all over the ship now."

_Nowhere safe. Nowhere to run._

Laura forcefully expelled the seditious thoughts from her mind. She had already come face to face with mortality on this ship and survived; the threat of more wouldn't be enough to stop her now, or ever again. She would not be defeated by the savage specter without a fight, especially not in view of the man crouched before her.

"Well, we've got to get him out of this bay. I doubt that you managed to get here unnoticed." Gritting her teeth, Laura attempted to lever the Wookiee up off of her, and then off of the bloodied deck. Jacen was at her side in an instant, and Dapaduuk's weight was suddenly manageable. When they had managed to move and prop him up against the ruined vehicle under which Laura had sheltered, Jacen paused to give Laura time to breath, and the two caught each other's eyes once more.

In a rush, all the feelings of regret and anxiety Jacen had felt following their last meeting came back to him. He remembered the frustration, the doubt; all the feelings that coming to know Laura Martin had sparked within him. He remembered affections from his life before they had crossed paths, some old, some achingly fresh. He felt the inevitable pain of parting, and knew he would have to brace himself for it again. Then, all in an instant, Jacen decided he would not need to.

Laura accepted the kiss without resistance or apprehension, as though she had expected for a long time. An eternal moment held them both, and no hesitation sullied the act, no doubt. The closeness of combat and death, the devastation all around, even the softly wheezing creature at their side, all were forgotten, taboo and inhibition cast away. Both had walked through the darkest corners of loss and the unforgiving jaws of war, and both had emerged alive, their strength found in the other. For the briefest and longest of moments, they were one.

Parting found them in the same macabre chamber, and neither hesitated to return to their dire work, but where weariness and worry still hung heavily in their features, despair was gone.

Together, the two lifted the taller, unconscious sapient to his feet, and Jacen gingerly grasped him around the broad chest. His muscles buckled under the weight, but an invisible hand joined them, and the Jedi found himself able to tote his living burden across the deck. Nevertheless, when a jarring tone resonated from the ceiling over the ambient drone of distant fighting and lesser warning sirens, the knight had to quickly refocus to keep from toppling onto the ground.

"What was that?" Laura asked, close at the Jedi's side.

Jacen frowned, and then caught sight of a cracked wall display that hung lopsided from a gutted maintenance computer, exposed wiring simultaneously keeping it lit and suspending it above the hard deck plate.

"It's an evacuation alert. Captain Ryceed just ordered all crewmembers to the escape pods. We're abandoning the _Republica_."

--------------------------------------------------------

A hub of brisk and earnest activity only minutes before, the command bridge of the Alliance cruiser now looked very much like the main cargo bay. The hatch that led to the adjacent turbolift bank lay in roughly-shorn pieces on the burned and scratched floor. Interfaces and displays all across the chamber's lower deck bore debilitating damage from wild slashes, blunt force, and gouts of corroding acid. Smashed emitters and rapidly depleting power cells left the bridge lit only by dim emergency illuminators. A haze of smoke from stray weapons discharges and electrical fires, some of which still smoldered unchecked, choked eyes and lungs, as did the stench of burned flesh and fresh blood.

William Riker stood just above the scene of destruction, his right arm wrapped with a hasty tourniquet. His once pristine uniform was torn and soiled in places, and his forehead was covered in a sooty cement of sweat and airborne detritus. Wiping the filth from his eyes, the commander watched as a trio of Alliance marines mounted a portable E-Web blaster cannon on its bulky tripod, aiming it towards the exposed access way from the bridge's interior balcony. Below, other soldiers and crewers were arrayed about the deck, the bodies of fallen comrades and heaps of lifeless Zerg at their feet. Moments before, they had been set upon the grisly work of searching the dead for ammunition and pushing the remains away from the center of the room. Now, however, all were motionless, eyes fixed up the Starfleet officer.

"I've relayed the order, sir, on all channels," a lieutenant reported from a communications station. "With the internal systems as they are, I can't be sure it'll reach everyone aboard, but I've done my best."

"The intercom is still offline?"

"You could use it, Commander, but there's no guarantee that anyone outside of this room would hear you."

Riker nodded in recognition, and then turned back to what remained of the _Republica_'s bridge crew. After taking a quick head-count, he could barely keep himself from cringing; barely two dozen beings stood before him, even with their numbers bolstered by the timely arrival of a squad of reinforcing marines and the handful of refugees that Major Truul and the Master Chief and somehow managed to spirit onto the command deck.

The onslaught had been sudden and brutal. With communications all but lost with the rest of the ship, Captain Ryceed had decided that there was no choice but to seal off the command level completely while the marines scattered throughout the ship desperately struggled to contain the encroaching intruders. However, even as she sent personnel to personally ensure that the level's key corridors and entry points were locked down, reports began to flow in that Zerg had been spotted only one deck below, and confused readings from what remained of the cruiser's senor net indicated that hostile warships were within transporter range of the floundering, defenseless vessel. Two minutes later, as the last of the _Republica_'s weaponry and monitoring gear went offline in a cascade of internal failures, the security detail posted by the bridge turbolift bank failed to report in.

Ryceed and her officers had managed to get heavy blast doors closed over the two main doors to the bridge, and were sealing the ingress from the lifts when they had appeared, sinuous claws and armored bulks turning back the durasteel barrier like it was made of foil. The marines tasked with defending the ship's nervous system had opened up on the threat without hesitation, but there had simply been too many of them to stop. Riker, consumed a moment before with finding a way to reestablish contact with the Allied fleet, found himself in the middle of a ferocious melee. Only the timely arrival of a contingent of soldiers lead by Truul and his Spartan companion from a maintenance crawlway adjacent to the turbolifts had saved him the jaws of animalistic intruders.

Ryceed had not been so lucky. Even as the Zerg invaders were being mowed down by a sudden crisscross of blaster fire, a single Zergling had managed to bowl its way past the defenders and onto the second level, where it had set its single-minded malice on the Mon Calamari captain before being extinguished by a pair of expert shots from the Chief. She now lay a few paces behind Riker under the care of a frazzled medic as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Confirming the severity of the deep lacerations that rent her expressionless face and uniformed torso, the caretaker insisted that he needed to get her to a medical facility with all possible speed.

She had only managed one intelligible statement since the attack, uttered to Riker as he knelt next to her mangled form. Ryceed had fixed the human with both huge, glassy eyes, and said, "Don't let them have it." Riker had given his word, and the captain had slipped from waking.

Now the commander cleared his throat, and all eyes fell upon him. "I have given the order to abandon the _Republica_."

A few murmured in dismay or disbelief. The rest were silent, watching.

"I realize that I am not your captain, or your executive officer, or part of this ship's chain of command at all. I am not even an officer of the Alliance, and I have never claimed to be. By all rights, I shouldn't have the authority to give the command I am giving now, and I understand fully if you are apprehensive about following it. The abandonment of one's vessel is a hard burden to bear, and to do it without the leadership of a commander you know and trust is almost impossible. Nevertheless, I must ask you all; trust me in this, and believe that I know enough of your captain to do what she would do in my place. I too despise the thought of retreating in the face of the Zerg, giving up this fine ship, but I also know that there is no way we can win this fight. There is no point in sacrificing this crew in a hopeless last stand when the war can still be won, and you all returned to fronts nearer to your hearts."

For a moment, no one spoke, until a human marine with a bandaged hand stepped forward from the small crowded, glancing meaningfully at her comrades as he did. "Commander Riker, I used to be an Imperial trooper, and I killed my share of good, honest sentients before I finally saw what the Empire was doing to our galaxy. This crew still accepted me, despite all of my crimes, because the Captain decided that there was something decent enough in me to let me on her ship. Most of us have only known Major Truul and the Chief for a few weeks, and we'd still fight for them and die alongside them if need be. At least, I would. I would because they've proven themselves able soldiers and competent commanders, and in a universe as twisted as this one, you've got to take all the men like that you can get."

"Solid skill or the Captain's confidence. If you've got one of those things on the _Republica_, your part of the family. From what I've heard, Commander, you've got both, and if that's the truth, then I'd follow you straight to the gates of the Imperial Palace. It doesn't matter if you're a Rebel or a Fed or a blasted Hutt, for that matter. Of course, if you end up being a dud, my opinion might change a bit, but from the looks of things right now, I won't be in much of a position to complain if you're wrong about this."

Truul walked up next to the woman and slapped her on the back. "Alright, Private, enough speeches. We haven't got the time. You heard the Commander, we've got places to be."

With that, the crew began preparing for evacuation as readily as though the order had been handed down by Mon Mothma herself. Clearing away a fallen Hydralisk corpse, a few ensigns began to manually decant one of the blast doors, while others armed themselves for the short trip to the bank of escape pods designed to serve the ship's command crew. The rest readied the wounded for transportation or stood at watch by the other bridge apertures, fully conscious of the muffled sounds of sabotage and battle that resonated through the floor plates from below.

Disguising a relieved sigh with a cough, Riker turned to the operations officers still at their posts. "I assume that there are some self-destruct protocols still available to us."

"Yes, sir. We still have an uplink with sublight control; it looks like the Zerg were trying to leave it intact. Locking the ion drives into an uncontrolled charge cycle should build up enough energy to flow back into the core and destabilize the hypermatter containment systems. If containment is lost like that, the ship will literally crack in half."

"How long will that take?"

"No more than fifteen minutes."

"Then get on it. I have a feeling that the Zerg aren't going to hold off for that long."

"Major!"

Truul hastened up the stairs to Riker. "Orders, Commander?"

"As soon as they get that door open, I want you and your soldiers to escort the wounded and the rest of the crew to the escape pods, and then launch yourselves out of here."

"What about you?"

Riker tugged on his tunic. "I'll stay here with a few officers to make sure that the self-destruct sequence is irreversible. After that, we'll follow out of the ship. Try to remember and leave us a pod, if you can."

Truul frowned, but nodded shortly. "Got it, Commander."

As Truul directed two of his largest marines to conduct Captain Ryceed to safety, Riker turned back to Operations and watched as a pair of lieutenants overrode several of the security protocols of the cruiser's navigational droid brain, and then directed it to appropriate all available power from the reactor for the massive tubular sublights at the rear of the vessel. Rather than divide the energy into individual apportionments for each drive, which could then produce the jets of energetic particles that propelled the warship through the void, however, they instructed the computer to pool what it diverted in the subsystem's power distribution grid. Within a minute, a status display indicated that the distributing vanes were heating well beyond their design specifications, and the energy that continued to pour in found the system less and less conductive. It was only a matter of time before the wave of energetic potential had no place to go but back, into the reactor's power feeds and inside the control systems that kept the tiny hypermatter star at the ship's heart from spilling forth.

Just as the current within the distant chamber surpassed the local flow meter's capacity to measure, several crewers shouted and pointed out the main viewport. Despite the battle that was obviously still raging outside of the ship, with the _Republica_'s sensors dead and imaging systems largely inoperative, the scene beyond the transparisteel plate had been fairly peaceful, a starfield trimmed by a silver of blue-green Bajor, occasionally etched with a distant flash of colored light or surge of motion. Now, however, several starships hung in space near enough that Riker could easily identify them as being Starfleet in origin. One of them, an _Intrepid_-class patrol ship, was so close that the commander could almost read the name and serial number stamped upon its silvery, oblong primary hull.

"Reinforcements?" an Alliance officer asked Riker.

Riker did not respond immediately. Instead, he moved closer to the panoramic viewport, straining his eyes at the distant form. The vessel, designed for speed and endurance, was of a new class, commissioned after the _Enterprise-D_ had passed through the fateful rift, and as such the commander was relatively unfamiliar with its structure. Nevertheless, something about its streamlined surface rang false, some feature out-of-place on a Starfleet hull. The ship moved almost imperceptibly more proximate, and Riker's seasoned eyes could suddenly see the flaw clearly.

Spaced along the ship's surface, sprouting from almost every hatch and pore, irregular lumps sullied the _Intrepid_'s sleek veneer. It was still far too distant to know for sure, but Riker would have sworn upon his commission that the protrusions were organic in nature.

"Those are no reinforcements." The Starfleet officer tore himself from the front of the bridge and swiftly returned to the upper level railing, beyond which the crew was already mostly assembled around the exit, which was already mostly unsealed. "Major!"

Truul looked up. "Yes, sir?"

"We need to get these people out of here now! The Zerg are within transporter range of the _Republica_, and this bridge."

The marine nodded solemnly, and then amplified his gruff voice commandingly. "Alright, let's get moving! Grab the wounded and line up at the hatch. I want us through the instant that barrier drops. Ulrand, Olesa, get on that gun and cover our backs!" The blast door creaked, and then disappeared into the ship's bulkhead, revealing a darkened, empty passageway. "I'm taking point. Chief, you take the rear. Let's move!"

The assembled group of officers and crew cued obediently before the hatchway and passed from view in groups of one or two, interspersed every so often by a wary marine or stretcher-bound casualty. After Captain Ryceed was carefully borne away, the Master Chief ushered the last few stragglers through the doorway, and then turned to Riker, who remained close by the operations station with the pair of soldiers and a steadfast Mon Calamari technician.

"Commander." The Spartan withdrew an object from a slot on his girdle and tossed it lightly to the Starfleet officer. "Just in case."

Riker looked at the thing carefully. It was a smooth, metallic ball roughly the size of his fist, adorned by a dark equatorial band, a few inactive lights, and a single, flat switch. The device was obviously of the Alliance's galaxy, and its purpose was somewhat outside of Riker's experience, but he had little difficulty identifying its nature.

The thought of the Chief's implication chilled Riker's blood, but he accepted its worth nonetheless. He offered a nod of thanks to the armored soldier; the Chief returned it, and then vanished himself beyond the bulkhead.

"Status?"

"The drive buildup still hasn't initiated a significant feedback reaction," the technician said without looking up from his controls. "There are too many redundancies and automatic regulators built into the system, and the computer network is too chaotic for me to shut many of them down. It'll be another few minutes before were sure that an irreversible cascade has been initiated."

"Anything you can do to speed it up," Riker urged.

Seeing that the two remaining troopers were rechecking their mounted blaster, the commander picked up a pistol that had been left on an inactive holograph plate and checked its tiny ammunition display. As he attempted to interpret the foreign symbols, an out-of-place and yet completely familiar sound met his ears. Normally a harbinger of hope and aid, the artificial crackle nearly froze his heart. A transporter beam.

Spinning towards the source of the noise, Riker found himself face to face with a charging mass of claws, teeth, and armored flesh. Diving instinctively to his right, he felt more than heard the creature strike the bank of computers next to which he had been standing. Rolling onto his back and sliding desperately away, Riker watched as the Hydralisk struggled to prize its scythe-like claws from the sheets of ruined metal, sending showers of scrap machinery and sparks cascading to the deck as it howled. Once it had wrenched itself free, it turned once again towards the commander, locking him in its single-minded gaze.

Barely thinking, the man raised his weapon and fired twice. The first shot went wide, blowing a relay box mounted on the ceiling into blackened fragments. The second hit, impacting the base of the creature's paddle-like skull fin, just above its eyes. The energy of the bolt shattered the bone, sundering organic armor that could have resisted any lesser blow. A look of deep malice still fixed on its angular visage, the creature shuddered, flailed its vicious limbs uselessly, and tumbled to the floor less than a meter from Riker.

Crawling away from the corpse in an adrenaline stupor, Riker made to call a warning out to his companions, but immediately saw that it was too late. Half a dozen other Hydralisks and a host of their smaller kin had appeared on the bridge, all around them. A few lay dead, victims of the quick response of Truul's marines and their E-Web, but the rest were converging upon the trio of humanoids, flashing over ruined terminals and cluttered deck plates with almost supernatural speed. As Riker looked on, one of the snake-like warriors, blood-red frame bulkier than that of its russet cousins, effortlessly grappled over the upper-level railing and threw itself at the technician, who had remained at his post resolutely.

The Mon Calamari leveled a blaster at the attacker, but before he could fire, a sideswipe knocked him to the deck, lifeless. A corona of crimson splashed against the hunter's arched back, but it seemed to barely feel the blow, and turned to face its new prey without pause. The marine who had shot the thing faltered momentarily, aghast that the monstrosity had survived the searing bolt, and then opened up on it again, his rifle coughing with added earnestness. The spray of charged gas set the Hydralisk aflame with small explosions, and small fragments of the creature rain from its skeletal form, but its advance did not cease. At last, blinded by a hit on its skull, the beast reared back, opened its chest cavity, and belched a hail of spines at the soldier, emptying its sac of projectiles before a blaster bolt found its way into the gap and ignited the Zerg a final time.

Stricken by several of the barbs, the trooper screamed and tumbled back over the railing, straight into the waiting jaws of a brace of Zerglings. The second Alliance marine barely had time to recognize that his comrade had fallen before he too was surrounded and overwhelmed by the claws and teeth of three more of the greater Hydralisks. Dragging himself to his feet, Riker attempted to stave off the feral creatures with volley after volley from his weapon, but they seemed to ignore him, even after two Zerglings joined the grim heap piled around them. Only when the other had been fully and unrecognizably dispatched did the marauders turn their attention again to the commander, who was now backed up against the bridge viewport, the very front of the compartment.

It took Riker a moment to notice that he had finally exhausted his blaster's supply of ammunition; he depressed the pistol's trigger again and again without thinking, barely aiming, intent on holding back the merciless host and nothing else. At last acceding to his disarmament, Riker let the blaster fall to the deck and placed both hands on the small orb which was still clasped tightly in his left fist. He contemplated its simple form, the single button trimmed by tiny lights. Mustering the last of his resolve, the Starfleet moved a thumb over the stud, and then looked up again at the ravenous sets of eyes now fixed firmly upon him, as if challenging them to come closer.

Then, to his bewilderment, Riker realized that they were not moving at him. The pack of beasts had stopped; the three towering Hydralisks and their lesser cohorts were less than six meters away, and still they did not show any sign of attacking. Instead, they sat in furtive silence, ever watching Riker, but seemingly restless, as if something had managed to distract them from their predatory impulses.

Footsteps sounded from the short stair on the bridge's left side. Rather than the rapid, clanking clamor that the Zerg boarders produced as they propelled themselves on claws and spiked coils, these were slow, of a gait that had control and clear purpose.

The entity that stepped into view was physically smaller than the pair of towering Hydralisks that flanked her from a distance, but see completely captured the commander's attention. In basic form, she was a woman; two meters in height, two arms, two legs, and a physique that could have made her a stunning beauty under different circumstances. Her torso and outer extremities were draped in a dark, burnished armor, which might have been artificial or grown of her own hide, and wherever the covering was absent, olive skin and sleek musculature flexed smoothly. Full, purple lips contrasted with lines and splotches of reddish discoloration that embellished her fine features, some of them traced down her chin like ribbons of long-dried blood.

Rather than hair, she bore a mane of segmented, brown spines that flowered out around her shoulders, their pointed ends swaying slightly with each step she took. Behind these growths, sprouting one from each shoulder blade, a pair of exposed bones jutted up above her head. Like the wings of some macabre angel, the appendages each sported a set of outstretched, enameled extensions, tipped with rending points that made the blades of her guardians appear worn and dull by comparison.

Riker watched her keen, yellow eyes fall upon him, and immediately had to steel himself to keep from losing his balance. Somehow, simply returning her gaze had sent a spasm of pain through his brain, and he was still attempting to clear his head when the being let her eyes fall away from him, focusing instead upon the head Mon Calamari technician who lay at her feet.

"A pity. This one could have been useful," she said after prodding the body with a boot. Her voice was surprisingly soft and ordinary, but with it Riker could perceive a chorus of other sounds accompanying the words within his mind, guttural noises and echoing incantations. The strange voices were similar to those he felt when Tassadar communicated, but rather than the controlled and steadfast sensations that manifested themselves with the Protoss' words, this creature's telepathic emissions were almost indecipherable, a clatter of fractured feeling, tinged by an aura of dread that Riker suspected was his own.

"Ah well, this breed of warrior has always been a bit overeager in its lust for the hunt. That's what really makes them superior to their lesser brethren I suppose, their drive, not their simple bulk. I must admit, the Protoss name for them, hunter-killer, I think it was, is quite appropriate. Still, they are quite sweet if you get to know them."

The woman held her hand out to one of her formidable escorts, and it moved within range of her fingers, tinting its massive skull upwards obediently. She stroked its detached jaw affectionately, and then turned again to face Riker. The half-grin on her lips frightened him far more than any of the tensed, waiting monstrosities arrayed around her.

Two more creatures shambled onto the bridge's upper level behind her. They were also obvious once humanoid, and still bore the rudimentary structure of their species, but otherwise were completely unrecognizable, amalgams of disjointed limbs, insectoid facial organs, and scabs of leathery, plated skin cast in all shades of purple and brown.

"There," the woman said, inclining her head fractionally towards the control panel the deceased Alliance officer had been manning, but keeping her gaze locked onto the trapped human.

"These two will perform just as well as the other would have. And this saves me the time of having to break and reform the alien, even if I would have had to do so only temporarily. Still, I am getting quite good at it. Fully compromising and reshaping a human mind used to take me several hours, and even then, they tended to fall apart quite quickly. Now I can do it in only a few minutes, and I don't even have to be present, as long as a suitable conduit is available. That's how I broke the poor little soul that got me onto this fine vessel, in fact."

She donned a look of mock consternation. "Still, I did feel her break free at the very end. Perhaps I should practice my technique a bit more."

"What are you?" Riker said at last, finally managing to choke back the fear that the creature's arrival had seeded within him.

She smiled again, and began to walk towards the man. Riker stood his ground as she approached, fixed less by courage than by the simple fact that he had nowhere left to run.

"That's no way to introduce yourself, Commander," she said irascibly. "Why don't you tell me a bit about William Thomas Riker first? Wait, allow me; speak up if I've missed anything. You were born in 2335, on Earth, Alaska, I believe. You graduated eighth in your class from Starfleet Academy, with several commendations for tactical ingenuity on your record. You served on the _Pegasus_, _Potemkin_, and _Hood_ exemplarily, and turned down your own command for a chance to serve on the flagship USS _Enterprise-D_ as Captain Jean-Luc Picard's first officer. Up until your disappearance in 2368, you were noted numerous times for distinction of service and competency under fire."

"You also enjoy smooth jazz and card games, and have a taste for exotic women."

"How…?" Riker began, and then clenched back his question. She was barely more than an arms length from him now, and he had barely even noticed her close the gap.

"How do I know all this?" she ventured. "You're a clever boy, Will, you should have figured it as soon as I spoke. After all, I assume that that Protoss templar you've been ferrying about hasn't kept mute for this whole time. Like him, and those lovely Betazed you seem to enjoy so much, I'm a telepath. Here, close enough that I can smell your sweat, I can read your mind as easily as I could order one of my warriors to bite that explosive you're cradling out of your hands."

Riker's thoughts raced. He and Captain Picard had often used Deanna Troi's empathic talents to get ahead in tense negotiations, but the commander had rarely been on the other side of a potentially hostile telepath. He only knew of one strategy that had any chance of circumventing their considerable advantage.

"You still haven't answered my question," he said. "Who are you?"

Kerrigan cocked her head at him, still grinning. "Alright, I'll play along, Commander. As you've guessed, I was once a human, a telepathically-gifted human from an empire that impressed people like me into military service from birth, but a human nonetheless. When the Zerg showed up and started devouring our colonies, I fought against them, and, just like everyone else, I was eventually overwhelmed. But they didn't kill me; no, the old master of the Swarm had different plans for this little Terran telepath."

"The Overmind stuck me in an organic chrysalis and changed me. He killed the woman I was, spunky Sarah Kerrigan, and used what was left to make his newest pet. That mound of rotted flesh enhanced my psionic abilities and altered my DNA, giving me this body, extending its life indefinitely, and injecting me with a sliver of all the hate that had been building up inside him for however many thousands of years he had festered. When I popped out, I was the perfect killing machine, a loyal and efficient executor of the great eyeball's divine will. Of course, that all changed when you friend Tassadar managed to land a battle carrier on him."

"Free, and without direction, I found that the Overmind had been kind enough to leave me with only one real passion; to conquer. I've tried to change that, get back more of what I once was, but it's never worked, and eventually I just gave up trying. I enjoy what I do, and I'm damn good at it. Queen of Blades, they call me, queen bitch of the universe. With the Overmind's old swarms for my own, I subjugated every world from Tarsonis to Shakuras, and all the way to Terra. And now I'm here for an encore performance. The first of many, I expect."

"But that's enough about me. My minions should be almost done stabilizing this ship's drives, and I don't want you to go on too long thinking that you have any chance of delaying me beyond the point of no return, or killing me with that little ball you're still holding. That would just be cruel."

Beneath Riker's hard, angered face, despair bubbled anew. He had known that this Zerg queen, this Kerrigan could not be distracted from her machinations so easily, but he had had to try. That was just the way the commander was. And now his efforts were truly for not.

_Might as well try one more stupid maneuver… _

Gritting his teeth, Riker raised the thermal detonator the Chief had given him and thumb the activator switch. A low, mounting whine emerged from beneath its alloy shell, and the lights around its perimeter shown bright.

"I think you might be underestimating the power of this little device, your highness. Then again, I'm not really sure. I haven't ever seen one go off in person. I guess we'll both find out in a few seconds."

Kerrigan, Queen of Blades rolled her eyes. Riker barely saw the blur of motion out of the corner of his eye before one of the Zerglings was upon him. The force of the creature's nearly knocked the man unconscious, and sent him tumbling to the deck, arms flopping out at his sides like a rag doll. Even as his brain began to process the pain inflicted by the blunt trauma, a gout of flame engulfed his right hand, and Riker wrenched himself into a fetal position violently, crying out. Gasping and retching from the pain, the man looked through tear-stained eyes to see that the hand was gone, nothing more than a fast-bleeding stump and a few crushed fragments of bone.

Moving with unparalleled focus, the Zergling bolted the fist and the blinking orb clutched within it in a single gulp. Then its tore past its master and the other boarders, leapt down the stairs and crossed the ruined deck in a blur. It hurtled through the ruined hatchway, and coming to one of the open lift shafts that the Zerg had compromised, threw itself into the pit without hesitation. An instant later, the dark chasm was filled with searing light and heat, which overwhelmed the shaft walls without resistance and shattered the surrounding decks with an expanding bubble of nuclear force. The shell of energy dissipated almost immediately, but everything that had with its path vanished with it, leaving a perfectly spherical void for a few moments before the undermined levels above and to either side collapsed, filling the space with debris.

"Look at the trouble you've caused," Kerrigan chided, kneeling down beside Riker as he nursed the bloody stump. "Now I'll have to have that repaired before I can do anything useful with this fine vessel. And to think, I was almost about to let you live."

She sighed. "Don't feel too bad. Men always like to indulge in pointless shows of resistance before the end. Perhaps it's genetic. I wonder if the Overmind exploited the trait when he started turning Terrans into those living bombs…"

One of the infested humanoids shambled away from its controls, and Kerrigan broke off her musings. "Finished already?"

The infested creature made no audible noise, but the sardonic grin on the Zerg queen's face disappeared as though the thing had spat in it. Hunched up against the viewport wall, Riker barely saw Kerrigan the bony limbs on her back move, but finely-cut pieces of the creature that slumped onto the deck were evidence enough of their speed and lethality.

When she turned back from the fresh kill, the Zerg monarch was stony-faced, every trace of dark humor and twisted humanity gone. Fury burned in her eyes, and Riker's flesh was abruptly bathed in a new anguish. Beyond screaming, the man simply stared back at his attacker, his mind ravished and clouded, but unbroken. He could still perceive and think, and that seemed to make Kerrigan's rage all the greater.

Rather than escalate her psionic assault, however, Kerrigan stepped back from the man and turned away, pacing back into the fold of her guardian horde.

"Have your ship, Commander. I do not need it to extinguish what remains of this galaxy and its pitiful inhabitants. Their suffering will be all the greater and my power will grow beyond reckoning. Know that you died for nothing, William Riker. Remember your failure while you can."

A dozen columns of blue-white light illuminated the darkened chamber for a few brief seconds, and then Riker was alone.

Grunting against the pain that still consumed him and fighting through the numbness of his limbs that grew with the unabated ebbing of his blood from the terrible wound, the Starfleet officer pushed himself to his feet, stumbled a few meters, and then collapsed again. Now, however, he was close enough the ship's operations display to see the lettering emblazoned prominently across its surface. He could not read the message, but its urgent warning was obvious.

Far below him, a new clamor rose to complement the sounds of battle that echoed through the hull from combats within and without. Lying upon his back, Riker grasped for images, memories, people he had known and loved, but the life was draining from him too quickly, and all that was past faded from his thoughts.

He reached out with remaining hand and his aimless fingers found purchase on the shoulder of the Mon Calamari technician, fallen by the post he had refused to give up as the _Republica_'s fate was sealed. Riker stared into the blank, alien eyes, and a small smile worked its way onto his draining face. He barely knew the sentient, and even those few memories were falling into darkness, but he knew that lying alongside the being made him feel oddly at piece.

"I will remember my failure," he whispered at last, "if you remember his victory."

--------------------------------------------------

"The Cruiser's forward shields have failed, Captain," Commander Worf reported from the _Enterprise_'s tactical station, training the sensors at his disposal on the infested Galor-class Cardassian warship that was the flagship's current target. "I'm reading an energy spike in her warp core. They may be attempting another ramming attack."

Picard stared sternly at the floundering, angular vessel through his ship's main viewer as it spat a plasma torpedo from one of its few remaining projectors. The projectile, unguided by a targeting system that had been damaged earlier in the skirmish, sailed cleanly past the starboard hull, missing by nearly a dozen kilometers. Undaunted, the ship ignited its aft drives and began to close with the _Sovereign_-class, its hull buckling noticeably in places from unsealed and growing breaches.

"Target her bridge," the captain ordered at last. "Just a phaser burst. That's all that's needed."

A beam of crimson energy lanced out from the ship's ventral surface. It struck the cruiser's raised, forward compartment, liquefied unshielded armor in an instant, and bit deeply into the charging ship's interior. Immediately, its sublight drives failed, and the _Enterprise_ was able to easily glide past the ship as its internal reactors overloaded and ignited their fuel stores. The victor's command crew watched the vanquished vessel dissolve into a supernova of plasma and minute debris for a few seconds before turning their attention back to the battle that still raged below them.

The Zerg raid had morphed into an Allied siege. The defensive fleet had managed to quickly recover from the abrupt and unexpected course-correction by the invading force, but they had been unable to stop them before the _Republica_ had been completely encircled. Simultaneously, all communications with the Alliance cruiser had been lost, and her weapons and defensive systems had inexplicably deactivated soon after the Zerg encirclement had been completed. The fleet commanders had quickly reached the conclusion that something had occurred to compromise the ship's crew, a supposition confirmed but not expanded upon by Tassadar, but every attempt to get close enough to the vessel to beam reinforcements through its thick, disruptive armor plating was rebuffed by a furious, suicidal onslaught from the Zerg marauders. They seemed completely focused on keeping the Allied fleet from their centerpiece, and aside from a few scattered squadrons of slower, trailing attackers like the Cardassian vessel the _Enterprise_ had just diverted to keep off of a damaged Klingon bird of prey, only fired upon Allied ships that approached their cordon.

That cordon had managed to hold staunchly, despite the overwhelming numbers of the Bajoran force and the furious maneuvering of the _Republica_'s own fighter squadrons. Now, however, as Picard looked at the primary plane of battle from his 'aerial' vantage point, he began to see chinks in the orbiting vortex of ships.

"Cortana reports that the main Romulan task force has destroyed the last of the lagging warships," Data said, looking up from his tactical display.

"Tell Commander Suran to move his ships to reinforce Admiral Nechayev's right flank," Picard said. "The Zerg formation there is beginning to weaken. We may be able to breach their line there soon."

"Shall I notify General K'Nera to bring up his insertion wing?" Data asked.

Picard shook his head. "Not yet. His troop ships aren't built for line combat, and Zerg could still consolidate their flank. The breach needs to be larger before we can risk sending in the boarding carriers. I don't want to lose more ships today.

Moving in closer to the battle line, the _Enterprise_ regrouped with its squadron of heavy-hitters, _Galaxy_ and _Cheyenne_-classes with an accompanying _Sovereign_. After the ships' captains had conferred to ensure that none had sustained any serious damage, the group wedged itself into the midst of the Allied force opposite Nechayev's. Noting that a string of the more intact nearby Zerg ships were beginning to bunch a little too closely together, Picard had Worf prepare a spread of quantum torpedoes.

Before he could give the order to fire, however, one of the sensor officers caught his attention.

"Captain, I'm picking up at least thirty new ships detaching from the _Republica_'s hull."

Picard turned to him. "Escape pods?"

"Affirmative, sir. Some of them are broadcasting broad-frequency distress signals. I'm also picking up several of the vessels already exiting the Zerg defensive perimeter. They must have been departing for some time already."

"Are they being attacked?"

The officer checked his readings quickly. "I'm reading the debris from a few of them, sir, but most of the Zerg ships seem to be ignoring the pods."

The captain frowned. Why would the perimeter ships simply be allowing the pods to escape? It would take little time or energy for the feral ships to destroy the tiny, vulnerable vessels, and mercy was not something that Picard had ever encountered in the invaders before, or ever expected to encounter. It was almost as though the mind or minds coordinating them were distracted.

"See if you can raise any of the escape ships," he ordered.

A few moments later, a familiar voice crackled over the bridge's speakers.

"This is Jacen Solo. I am carrying wounded and am in need of immediate assistance."

Picard stood. "This is Captain Picard, Mr. Solo. The Zerg fleet is keeping us away from the _Republica_ and your vessel, but they do not seem interested in the departing ships. Are you under fire?"

"No, Captain."

"Then see if you can find a way outside of the Zerg perimeter, and I'll dispatch a ship to recover you. Try to maneuver as far as possible away from the enemy warships."

"I'll try. They don't seem that interested in this shuttle right now."

"What's the situation onboard?" Picard asked after having the position of Jacen's vessel confirmed and ordering several ships to intercept it along with the other escape ships. "We lost contact with Captain Ryceed several minutes ago."

"I'm not really sure, Captain," Jacen replied. "A large number of Zerg somehow appeared onboard, and started disabling the ship's systems. I was assisting Ensign Martin and a few crew members when the evacuation alert was sounded. I moved as many of the crew as I could find onto this shuttle and took off."

"No word on the status of the command crew?"

"Major Truul was making for the bridge to reach Captain Ryceed, but we were… separated. I haven't heard from him since."

Picard glanced at the chair where Commander Data was seated. The android noted the concern evident on his captain's face, and nodded. "I understand, sir. Should we attempt to breach the line here and move for the _Republica_'s command deck?"

Picard stared at the distant image of the oblong vessel, and then shook his head resignedly. "No, I won't risk this or any other ship in the fleet for just one man. Commander Riker will hold the bridge with the captain, if they haven't evacuated already. He knows what's riding on that ship, but he also knows enough not to throw away his life if the vessel cannot be saved."

Even as the Captain spoke the words, he knew that they were hollow. As good a leader and sensible a man as he was, Riker was also prone to heroics. He would throw down everything he had if there was even the slightest chance that his sacrifice would save a life or bring victory to those he cared about. Blind luck was the only thing that had saved him on several occasions while under Picard's command, and the Captain knew all too well that luck never held out forever in war.

An unnerving echo reverberated through the bridge chamber, distracting Picard from his anxious thoughts. He turned to see Tassadar pace towards the viewport, his undulating pupils alive with energy.

"High Templar?"

"Anger," he rumbled. "I sense fury from that ship that is beyond any human. There is another mind here, one I could not detect before."

"The Cerebrate?" Worf ventured. Despite the Protoss' best efforts, he had been unable to locate the mind coordinating the invasion force. He had only touched lesser adjuncts amidst the encroaching swarm; until now, the powerful, veiled presence that had first alerted the commanders to the _Republica_'s compromising had remained elusive.

Tassadar did not respond immediately, instead advancing to the large, flat viewscreen and placing a four-fingered hand upon it. As he did so, the rotating shell of starships surrounding the Alliance cruiser collapsed into a loose hemispheric ring. Then, before any of the vanguard of Allied ships could respond, the Zerg force splintered, surging for open space in every direction in groups of three and four.

"Will!" someone cried breathlessly from the rear of the bridge. Tearing himself from the bizarre maneuver, Picard looked back to see Counselor Deanna Troi standing in a turbolift aperture, frozen, with a look of pain and horror on her face.

Before anyone could move to aid her, an alarm attracted attention back to the viewport, but not to the scattering Zerg warships. Floating all but dead in space only a few moments before, the _Republica_ seemed now to be sheathed in light. Illumination poured from its tubular drives and patches of brilliance began to break its smooth surface.

"I'm picking up a massive energy spike from the _Republica_!" an officer reported urgently.

Unblinking and transfixed, Picard stared at the ship as the rippling areas of light grew wider and more intense. Areas of plating and whole weapons blisters seemed to melt away into the blinding sheen of light. Instinctively, Picard raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare, but before his hand reached his face, a star erupted before the command crew, tinted red, then orange, yellow, then white. Gradually, reluctantly, the globe of illumination fade into the muted starfield, and finally, space was dark once more.

The _Republica_ was gone.

Behind Picard and Data, Deanna released an anguished exhalation, swayed, and fell roughly into the arms of a nearby crewman.

Tassadar was the first break the silence that descended upon the deck. "Rally, Picard. This fight is not yet done. Kerrigan is here."

Slowly, Picard looked from the now-empty viewport to the Templar. "Kerrigan?"

Tassadar's eyes blazed. "The Queen of Blades is the one I sensed. She came here to personally seize that vessel. Now she has been robbed of her prize, and flees with her vanguard. Come, Captain! Your commander has done his part. Now you must do yours. End this war now! Do not let her escape!"

Picard bristled at the sharp command, but after a moment he nodded shortly. "Helm, bring us about. Where is she?"

As the rest of the fleet attempted to intercept the far-flung remnants of the attack force, the _Enterprise_ and its escorts bypassed easier targets and fell in behind a cluster of half a dozen fast Starfleet and Klingon ships, which were carefully positioned to cover the lone Intrepid at the center of their formation from any reprisal. A volley torpedoes and phaser bursts flashed after the fleeing vessels, shattering one of them and overloading the shields of another. The others surged onward without pause, intent upon the freedom beyond Bajor's shadow.

Alerted by the flagship, the _Millennium Falcon_ and a host of Alliance fighters streaked past the _Enterprise_ and its cohorts, their lasers and missiles disrupting shield bubbles, pitting hulls, and rupturing warp nacelles. Clearing the escorts, the tenacious freighter at the head of the avenging squadron drove straight at the heart of the formation, its twin quad laser cannons belching flame. However, before a single one could strike the nimble vessel, it surged with sudden movement, and vanished from space in a streak of motion. Propelled between the stars by a different mechanism, the fighters could not follow.

The _Enterprise_, however, could not be so easily shaken. Flanked by a pair of older warships, it passed into warp as well, and quickly closed the gap with the Zerg-infested ship. The _Intrepid_ fired a spray of torpedoes at its pursuers, but they absorbed the blasts, shaken, but able enough to return their own spread of fire.

A phaser beam glanced off the streamlined hull's protective shield, and then another impacted it firmly, sending waves of destructive frequency pulsing across its immaterial surface. Surging ahead, the _Enterprise_ pushed its drives to their limit, and gradually positioned the _Intrepid_-class within the range of its full firepower.

But the ship and the mind it bore were not defenseless. Resolving from the blurred darkness between the hunter and the hunted, a quartet of worn green hulls swarmed to their master's aid. The cloaked Klingon and Romulan ships absorbed the full force of the _Enterprise_'s withering assault, and those that remained returned with their own weapons. Overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught, the flagship's shields failed, and a disruptor pulse struck one drive, sending bands of lightning up and down the dimming nacelle and its pylon. The ship slowed, its crew scrambling to meet the unexpected threat. The secreted warships sensed weakness, but in their eagerness to destroy their master's nemesis, failed to acknowledge the two silver combatants that lagged only slightly behind.

Tassadar barely noted the swift destruction of the last of Kerrigan's escorts. The Queen herself was too distant now to catch, already approaching the limits of the _Enterprise_'s sensors. The Protoss, however, could still feel her chilling presence clearly, and she could feel him.

_Do not fear, Tassadar. We yet shall meet. I have been looking forward to it for a long time. _

Tassadar felt an old chill run through him. In Kerrigan's distant voice, he could hear the malice of the Overmind, the ancient will of the swarm and the demon that had brought his own brand of extinction to the very homeworld of the Protoss.

_I cannot forgive what you have become, Sarah Kerrigan, by your own will or not. You, like your old master, must be destroyed._

_Then come for me, old one. You know where I await you. And do not think that your pet fleets and soldiers will be enough to defeat me. I am of the Swarm like no other your kind has ever faced, and by the Swarm, I will see your bloody quest ended. _

The High Templar felt the sickening presence fade until he was once again alone, staring into the stars.

_By Aiur, dark one, my quest _will_ end. _


	43. Chapter Sixty One

**Chapter Sixty One**

The _Victory I_-class Star Destroyer moved slowly, seamlessly through space, it's gradually curving course perfectly synchronized with the yellow globe that revolved a few hundred kilometers below. Carefully slotted into a geosynchronous orbit, the warship was both frozen and moving; although it hurtled through the void along with its vast counterpart, to an observer the surface far below, it was a fixed point, another star in the nighttime sky. And just as it could be watched by planet bound searcher or instrument, the nine hundred meter wedge of durasteel plating and machinery kept the world under a probing eye. Dozens of sensors and hundreds of men watched the planetary surface intently, scanning every square meter and tagging everything that moved for further observation and analysis.

Thermal imagers and tri-light scopes were not the only devices trained on the world. Nearly one hundred weapons emplacements dotted the ship's broad, gray hull, and of them, only a few fixed missile tubes and turrets obstructed by the vessel's own bulk were not oriented towards the distant, rolling dunes and rocky plains. A shuttle-sized turbolaser mounted high on the _Victory_'s starboard side, which was inclined steeply towards the curvature of the world, turned a few degrees on its mount, raised its primary firing shaft a meter, and then punched back, unleashing a lance of emerald light. The glistening beam was swiftly swallowed by the reflected light of the globe, and when the bolt fell expertly on its sighted target a moment later, the ruinous explosion was only perceptible by the beings that had designated the target.

As the destroyer continued on its appointed course, discharging another packet or two of supercharge particulate and energy every few minutes, it found itself in increasingly crowded space. Battle blasted hulks, must of them rendered into fragments smaller than a scout fighter, were coalescing slowly under the influence of the nearby planet's gravitational pull. No longer possessing any motive force of their own, the bits of debris collected by the billion, forming loose bands that could stretch from one horizon to the other. In time, the orbital cloud would drift too close to its host, and atmospheric friction would ignite each particle. A storm of shooting stars would light up the sky, a modicum of beauty, paid for dearly in blood.

The ship's crew paid the cloud little mind. A few guns turned to trace some of the larger pieces of debris, and one or two of them atomized several particularly obtrusive fragments, but the vessel's navigators made no effort to avoid the rest. The ship's skin-tight deflector shields were more than capable of shrugging off the tiny, relatively-slow moving scrap, and its captain was too focused on his current assignment to worry about such a trivial matter. A minute into the drifting field, any sensors that had been taken off the planet were returned, and the wreckage was forgotten.

As the pointed prow of the warship passed a kilometer above what had once been part of a massive holographic communications array, something within the derelict tangle of metal winked to life. A drum of muted violet just over two meters long, the object was unimpressive, save for the fact that it lacked the intense heat scoring that distorted and discolored most of the flotsam around it. Attached to a flattened piece of bulkhead twice its size by several of the long, pointed protuberances that covered it at regular intervals, the blunt-ended cylinder seemed to be equally dead, save for a tiny, reddish light on a control panel at its midsection that had just flashed on.

The _Victory_ continued on deeper into the debris field, and as it moved past, other devices lit up. There were only a few at first, but as their lone lights began to glimmer on and off, other objects, not so close, also activated. Veiled in the thickest regions of wreckage, larger machines also cast out subtle signals of recognition. Soon, the massive wedge was completely surrounded by the things, dozens of them. Hundreds.

Then, in unison, they began to move. Detaching electromagnetic clamps and pushing past smaller bits of dross, minute drives mounted on each tip of the elongated devices flared, and the hidden multitude converged. Passive energy sensors attached to the Imperial warships hull detected minor fluctuations and radiation spikes; automated computer filters discounted them as background static. Proximity detectors picked up the first group of cylinders as the slowly approached the hull; their small, non-threatening size noted, attendant crewers quickly dismissed them. An outstretched sensing spike on one scraped the invisible energy barrier around the ship, powered just enough to ward off any wayward debris; the contact didn't trigger the slightest of fluctuation.

The voluminous cloud of supercharged plasma that the first mine expelled as it cracked open caused a ripple of transparent blue to flow across the ventral hull forty meters in every direction. Twenty more explosives impacted and detonated in the next few seconds, illuminating patches on every side and surface of the vessel. Before the ship's crew could do more than look up from their displays in confusion, a hundred more mines impacted the shielded mass, enveloping it in plasma residue and spastic waves of coherent energy. Unprepared for the onslaught, the defensive barrier began to fail.

Turbolasers quieted immediately, and technical crews desperately attempted to reroute all available power to the besieged deflector emitters. Already on the verge of shutdown, the main generator choked on the new influx of energy, faltered momentarily, and then sputtered off as the continuing bombardment disrupted each reparatory countermeasure and failsafe. Ancillary deflector systems scattered across the hull came to life a moment later, but the brief lapse had been long enough to allow several of the larger bombs to impact the ship unhindered. The _Victory_'s pristine plating was now pocked by several gapping chasms, and still the onslaught did not let up.

Onboard the warship's bridge, the Imperial captain had just dispatched an urgent and confused distress signal, and was barking commands to the chiefs of his repair crews when one of the mightiest columns slammed into the base of his command tower. Lurching forward to avoid an ungraceful tumble back into a crowded crew pit, the man steadied himself on the edge of a forward diagnostic computer and happened to look out the main observation viewport as a blue wave of contained plasma washed over the bridge's emergency energy screen. The searing discharge dissipated quickly, and so did the visible tint of the agitated shielding, revealing the scene around his vessel for a moment before another mine detonation obscured his view once more.

The captain called for a tactical display of the space surrounding the vessel, and in a few moments a subordinate directed him to a waiting terminal. The tiny, motile explosives were still dashing themselves upon his hull, but their numbers, at least of those that the ship's sensors had identified, were waning. They, however, were no longer the only contacts shown.

Weaving through the surrounding debris field in tight formation, four full wings of Seraph starfighters bore down upon the wounded vessel. The fliers, each more than four times the size of an Imperial TIE, deftly juked past the remaining mines, and then reformed into a long column several ships wide that proceeded to angle straight at the destroyer's central mass. Point defense guns and blasts from still-detonating booby traps shattered several of the vessels, but the rest moved even closer, racing up the ship's sloping, pyramidal face with disarming speed. When they were within a hundred meters of the prominent command tower, they jerked upwards suddenly, and pulse lasers mounted within the forward teardrop tip of each stuttered, tracing lines of fire to the exposed bridge platform. Other plied the barrier with side-mounted plasma projectors, unleashed only meters from their target as the ships raced past.

The first wing found the deflectors still in place, as did the second. Oblivious to the simultaneous attack, the last of the mines detonated in front of the command deck, disintegrating or diverting much of the third wave before it could unleash its payload. The final formation, however, found the bridge exposed at last, undone by the suicidal attack. They did not hesitate, and rejoined their rapidly retreating comrades only after the out-thrust bridge cavity was nothing more than a molten cavern.

From the command platform of the flagship _Sacrosanct_, Supreme Commander Teno 'Falanamee watched a holographic representation of the Imperial destroyer burn in space as atmosphere from unsealed compartments throughout its interior was blown towards hull breaches and fanned corrosive, artificial flames. The ship was not wholly dead; the sheer size of the vessel had prevented the core from being breached, and internal compartmentalization meant that much of its crew was probably still alive. Still, it was decapitated and badly lacerated, effectively removed from any further fighting. In a war against technology that surpassed even the works of the gods, it was a rare accomplishment.

A murmur of celebration escaped the split lips of the Sangheili officers assembled around 'Falanamee, but their reaction was subdued, unusually so considering the overwhelming success of the stratagem. Nevertheless, he was unsurprised. A small, relatively bloodless victory could not make up for a war that had seen so many of their kind perish futilely.

The Supreme Commander had been greatly gratified by the composition of the officer corps of his new command. Following his near-disastrous failure with Admiral Wattinree, 'Falanamee had feared that those under his command would get wind of their commander's disfavor and seek to undermine him, perhaps in revenge for their old executive's removal. Instead, the crew and the ship master under his command had been surprisingly quick to accept him, and had shown both loyalty and skill over the course of several engagements. What as more, most seemed to be intelligent, inquisitive officers, elevated for their skill in combat instead of their quickness to genuflect before the Prophets. In an empire that valued religious zeal and subservience as much as martial prowess, such a crew was as uncommon as the victory they had just won.

"A human support vessel destroyed, at the cost of only nine Seraphs," 'Falanamee commented, turning to the gold-armored Sangheili who stood in waiting beside him. "Hiding those mines within the wreckage of our own vessels was a rather… unorthodox maneuver, and unexpected enough to catch our target completely unawares. An impressive show of ingenuity, ship master."

Ship Master Hewa 'Adralee nodded shortly. "Thank you, Excellency. When we were alerted that the invaders intended to take Radiant Sanctum, I realized that their previous success in this system could be used against them. The Holy Armada has done little but face them in honorable, open combat since their arrival, and I suspected they would not anticipate such a tactic for us."

"You do not consider this honorable combat?" 'Falanamee asked.

'Adralee considered for a moment, and then looked his commander squarely in the eyes. "It is true, deploying the mine field was a treacherous maneuver, and the human warship was slain with only minimal confrontation with our soldiers. Nevertheless, thousands of warriors and many of your vessels that might well have been destroyed in open combat still move and hold the will to fight. Their service in the conflict yet to come will be honorable enough."

The Supreme Commander returned his subordinate's gaze in silence, and then turned back to the huge holographic projection that dominated the center of the _Sacrosanct_'s overbridge. Internally, however, the warrior's response had given him nearly as much satisfaction as the _Victory_'s destruction. 'Adralee was young for a position as prestigious as the one he held, and had only directed a single naval skirmish before the outbreak of the Imperial invasion. Nevertheless, he displayed both sound tactical sense and a mind for strategy that seemed largely uncluttered by the various dictums of orthodoxy that often interfered with the creative growth of military minds within the Covenant. He was as pious as the next servant of the Prophets, of course, but there was more to the officer as well: the word of the gods colored his life, but beneath that, he was a solider first and foremost. A true Sangheili.

It was the right and privilege of one of his rank to take direct command of any vessel upon which he raised his flag, but 'Falanamee was content to allow 'Adralee to continue conducting his ship. That was fortunate, because the Imperial destroyer was not the only enemy ship that required his attention.

The reformed Fleet of Particular Justice was positioned in the shadow of Caad, one of the planet Radiant Sanctum's two small moons. Tentatively, the Supreme Commander's force was supposed to be in reserve and under a communication blackout, but in addition to orchestrating the _Sacrosanct_'s trap, situated in a narrow orbital band just above the world's equator, he had taken the liberty of tapping into the planet's satellite network, and was monitoring the conflict that was unfolding on the planet's day side.

A day before, the combined fleet of Righteous Purpose under Imperial Admiral Wattinree had been dispatched in full to the planet. The fact that the system was involved in the conflict at all was a sign that things were proceeding poorly for the Covenant; although still positioned on in the outer reaches of the holy empire, it was far enough from UNSC space to have never even seen a full fleet of warships in the last half century. Its dry surface of sandy desert and rocky plains was dotted with cities and large settlements, most of them completely lacking any major military installations. In ages past, the world had been colonized after a few worn Forerunner monoliths had been uncover beneath its equatorial dunescape, and even now it hosted a sizeable population of minor Prophets. It was truly Covenant home soil, and now it was under threat.

Radiant Sanctum lacked any real strategic value, but the Galactic Empire had nevertheless decided to add it to their growing litany of conquered and devastated worlds. The planet's meager defensive fleet had managed to drive off the initial expeditionary force at heavy cost, and ground forces had captured one of the intelligence-gathering automatons dispatched to the surface during the fighting. Huragok engineers had been able to isolate its memory core, and upon analysis, an AI had determined that there was a high likelihood that the Empire would return in force. Alerted of this, the High Prophets had instructed Wattinree to defend the planet at any cost, although they had not explained, at least to 'Falanamee's knowledge, why Radiant Sanctum was vital enough to risk compromising half of the fringeward defensive core.

The AI's warning, at least, had been warranted. Two standard units before, four Imperial star destroyers, along with a dozen escort ships, had emerged on the planet's lit side, swiftly destroying the handful of satellites, fueling stations, and transports that had been unlucky enough to fall within easy range of their turbolasers. They had then set up a blockade over several of the world's largest population centers, and began to send their own large, armored transports down the gravity well. Before Wattinree was able to react, there were Imperial troops on three of the planet's continents, with ships like the decapitated _Victory_ burning them a path through waiting Covenant legions and weapons emplacements.

The Admiral had moved quickly to bring his force, positioned largely on the other side of the planet, to bear on the intruders, despite their vast, proven superiority. He split the combined fleet into two main halves, and dispatched each to engage the Imperials from the planet's polar regions, hoping to lure the humans out of their formation. The Fleet of Particular Justice had been left in reserve, and 'Falanamee had not protested. Indeed, he had not spoken to Wattinree more than was absolutely required since their meeting. Even in his projected visage, 'Falanamee could sense the warrior's unmitigated disgust for him, and he knew better than to tempt that distain a second time.

And so, the Sangheili and his ship masters had been forced to wait and watch as local space filled with the burning remains of their comrades. The combined fleet had successfully split the star destroyers and their escorts into two groups and completely enveloped both, as Wattinree had planned, but the Imperial technological advantage was simply too great to counteract. Aside from their loss in the mine field, the Imperial commander had only sustained two significant casualties, a _Nebulon-B_ frigate that had succumbed to sheer, suicidal volume of fire from the northern wing, and an _Acclamator_ assault ship that had been in the process of landing and disgorging its troops when a combined ground and orbital attack had managed to ground it. The thousands of Seraph fightercraft arrayed against the star destroyer's attendant TIE squadrons had been more successful, but the fleet's heavy hitters were still more or less untouched.

Covenant losses, of course, had been catastrophic.

Unable to watch Wattinree sacrifice cruiser after cruiser in useless flanking maneuvers and kamikaze runs, 'Falanamee turned his attention to the displays that were tasked with the campaign on the planet below. The Empire had rarely engaged in large-scale ground combat, opting instead to slag targets of importance from orbit, but from the scattered reports that the Supreme Commander had heard, and his limited personal experience with the Imperial Stormtrooper Corps, he was not hopeful.

The legions tasked with defending the planetary capital and its other major cities fought with admirable ferocity and tenacity. Sheer weight of numbers and suicidal focus had enabled the planet's defenders to hold their ground on several battlefields, particularly where orbital support was absent. Imperial foot soldiers, especially those who had advanced into urban theaters, were having a difficult time routing their zealous antagonists, but on the open plains and in the skies, Imperial technological preeminence was obvious once more. 'Falanamee watched as a towering, quadruped war machine shrugged off the plasma artillery of a column of Wraith tanks and Scarab command walkers. Elsewhere, TIE fighters harried disintegrating squadrons of Banshee support fliers and shot down Covenant troop carriers in droves.

"Show me Pale Throne."

One of the command officers linked with an automated observation drone in orbit around the planet, and within a few seconds, a hologram representing a sprawling metropolis resolved before the Supreme Commander. The world's capital, a vast grid of ornate temples and monuments surrounded by several rings of crowded laborer domiciles and distribution facilities, was at the center of the battle; the larger concentration of Imperial warships hung heavily over the city, and thousands of Imperial infantry and armor were advancing through its outskirts. The area was also the command center of Covenant military operations in the system, meaning that the human battalions had to fight their way through a network of entrenched protectors and defensive positions, but the invaders were nevertheless slowly progressing towards the heart of the capital.

"It is odd that they have not abandoned their attempt there," 'Adralee said. "These humans have had to shed little blood for their gains since their arrival, and have often distained the opportunities for equal, honorable ground combat our warriors have offered. Why should their conquest of this world be any different?"

"A valid question," 'Falanamee replied. "Have you also noticed the behavior of their fleet? The Admiral has given them several opportunities to bypass his forward phalanx and target his command ships directly, but none of the vessels have broken from their positions in orbit above Pale Throne and Attendant 04, the resource transport hub on the southern continent. They could finish this contest swiftly with a more aggressive posture, and yet they remain fixed."

'Adralee peered at the planetary diagram above them carefully. "Yes. Yes, I see, Excellency." He moved closer to the representation and gestured towards a particular section of the battle perimeter, which obediently magnified and centered itself before him. It displayed the pair of star destroyers and handful of support cruisers arrayed above the capital, completely enveloped by a bubble of enormous Covenant starships. "And look here. The blade-ships are oriented with its primary weapons directed towards the planet's surface, not Imperial Admiral Wattinree's host. They seem to be relying upon the lighter craft to engage our vessels."

'Falanamee nodded slowly, cursing himself silently for not noticing the abnormal configuration before. "The human warships are perfectly positioned to destroy any target in the capital, and still they rely upon their soldiers."

A sudden thought hit him, and he turned to white-armored sub-commander. "Where have the human vessels been concentrating their fire upon Radiant Sanctum's surface?"

The officer consulted briefly with his instruments and fellow controllers. "Excellency, most of their fire seems to be aimed at aircraft and launching space vessels."

"Not on troop concentrations?" 'Falanamee asked.

"Several legions of infantry have reported suffering heavy casualties to orbital fire, Excellency, and a Wraith division to the North of Pale Throne was destroyed a short while ago, but most of their weapons have focused on aerial targets, especially heavier transports. Their fightercraft also seems more focused on flighted targets than our warriors. The fleet has monitored several reports of fleeing transport vessels being forced to ground by human fire."

"Forced to ground?" 'Adralee interjected. "Not destroyed?"

"Yes, Ship Master. At least one unarmed currier vessel that took flight from Pale Throne was damaged and forced to land within occupied territory. Reports from the surface are increasingly scattered, however, and I was unable to confirm the fate of its crew."

Why would they be attempting to take fleeing crews and civilians alive? The puzzle's solution was self-evident: they wanted something, or someone, on the world alive and intact. The realization did little to clarify the situation, however. What would the Empire possibly want, especially on such a militarily inconsequential world? What would compel them to expend men and material so unnecessarily? Had their exploratory probes discovered something important nestled amidst the sandy dunes?

'Falanamee walked swiftly across the overbridge's command platform to a column of smoothly-sculpted metal and placed a large hand on its rounded cap. The cool surface hummed softly, and then began to warm. Light fixtures studding its sides flared with azure light, and a hazy, translucent form manifested itself before the Supreme Commander's eyes.

Copied ritualistically a thousand times over from the first years of the Covenant's existence, the Maintainers, or Oracles, within the nerve center of every major starship and installation were ancient artificial intelligences, often as inscrutable and enigmatic as the Forerunner on whose technology the program was based. Compounded point errors and minute copying mistakes over the millennia had robbed the intellects of many of their interactive properties, from conversational subroutines to personal avatars; the projected form that floated before the Sangheili appeared to be more a muted mass of tiny, lambent insects than anything meaningful, even if the hint of a face pinched its surface from time to time. Nevertheless, this particular AI was at least understandable, if cold and terse, and held an indispensable wealth of information at the tips of its immaterial tendrils.

"Maintainer."

The flickering mass bubbled, and then a cold, hollow voice that seemed to come from the sloping dome above began to drawl. "Speak, Sangheili."

"What importance does the planet Radiant Sanctum hold?"

"It is a world of the gods. The relics of the ancients have been found upon its surface, and by them, it is a holy place."

"Nothing else?" 'Falanamee pressed. "It has no other value?"

"There is nothing of greater value than the vestiges of the Forerunners."

'Falanamee growled, but decided upon a different tact. "Does Radiant Sanctum currently bear any thing or individual that an enemy of the Covenant might deem of significance?"

The mind paused for a moment. "Radiant Sanctum is of negligible military consequence."

"Logistical importance, then. Economic. Political."

"The world hosts three transportation and distribution hubs that coordinate the shipment of foodstuffs, raw material, and laborers for sixteen other planets in its sector. Six major agricultural complexes are located on its surface, which supply the planet and three adjacent colonial systems. The largest moon of the outer-system planet Arc contains a vanadium ore extractor, which feeds directly into distribution hub Attendant 04. The Deepening Cloister, located within planetary capital Pale Throne, contains the highest concentration of temples and Prophet sanctums in the sector. An automated interstellar positioning beacon…"

'Falanamee stopped the intellect's passionless droning. "Enough. Tell me more of the Deepening Cloister."

"The Deepening Cloister is a complex of fifty eight religious structures commissioned with Radiant Sanctum's colonization and formal consecration during the Eighth Age of Conversion. In addition to housing the Chambers of Edict for the planet, system, and local sector, the compound contains several dozen residences, retreats, temples, convocation halls, and monuments constructed specifically for the usage of Prophets tending or traveling through its region of the Holy Empire. Several High Councilors and adjuncts are known to the Hierarchs maintain asylums within the Deepening Cloister for retreat and communion while High Charity is positioned away from the galactic core."

The AI's drawl suddenly brought to mind for 'Falanamee a bit of trivia that he had nearly forgotten between his recent confrontation and the ongoing struggle with the Galactic Empire. Before the Supreme Commander had broached his heretical knowledge to Wattinree, while the two had been discussing defensive strategies, Wattinree had mentioned that High Charity was undergoing refurbishment around the Jiralhanae world of Asphodel, and would be immobile for a short period of time. So quickly put aside before, the fact now stuck fast in 'Falanamee's mind.

_Could they have found out? _

"Maintainer, are any members of the High Council currently on Radiant Sanctum?"

The mind paused a moment again. "I do not possess that knowledge."

Lost in thought, the Supreme Commander withdrew his hand from the Maintainer's interface and moved slowly back to where 'Adralee waited patiently, watching the distant battle with a keen eye.

"Excellency?" the ship master questioned, and then noticed the look of deep, tense contemplation on his superior's scarred face. Taking his silence as answer enough, 'Adralee turned back to the battle display without another word.

Below, the ferocity of the Imperial army's assault increased, and in Pale Throne, human soldiers began to penetrate the ruined ranks of defensive placements and worker barracks, nothing between them now and the relatively untouched city center. In orbit, the combined fleet continued to wane, its ceaseless bombardment of the invaders rebuffed by deflector shields and storms of counter fire. 'Adralee and his crew watched their controls with mounting frustration, which was gradually turning to anger. Why had the Imperial Admiral not allowed them to join their brothers in battle? Why, indeed, were they fighting and dying here at all? What could be worth the lives of so many Sangheili? Across the Fleet of Particular Justice, zealots and ship masters observed the slaughter fixatedly, tabulating mental lists as they watched soldiers they had served with for decades fall one after another to Imperial turbolasers.

At last, the silence of the flagship's overbridge was broken by the call of a subordinate. "Supreme Commander, Admiral Wattinree demands communication with you."

Brought back from his reverie, 'Falanamee made a gesture of compliance, and in a few moments he stood before a full-size representation of the commanding warrior, his glowering visage tight in the Supreme Commander's presence.

"What do you command, Excellency?" 'Falanamee asked stiffly, genuflecting as was expected by custom.

"Human soldiers have trespassed upon the planetary capital. They will be dealt with soon, but several have seized the planet's rector and his consorts. They have been placed onboard a small craft and are being flown out of the city and towards the intact, landed enemy warship three hundred units from Pale Throne. You are to move your fleet into the fighting, create an orbital perimeter, and then dispatch all the aerial units at your disposal to capture that vessel and reclaim the hostages. When you have succeeded, your fleet will focus their armaments upon the landed human craft and any nearby human forces. Is that understood?"

"I will obey, Excellency." 'Falanamee's eyes rose to meet Wattinree's in full, but his voice and manner did not change. "Who are these consorts, so that I may know that all have been reclaimed?"

Wattinree's mandibles flayed outward slightly. "The rector is with a Prophet of the High Council. That is all that should concern you."

"By your word, Excellency. I will not fail."

"Be sure of it," Wattinree sneered, and then ended the communication line. Before he disappeared, however, 'Falanamee thought he caught a flicker of apprehension in the Admiral's manner. The high officer may have utterly disdained his subordinate, but he was still wary of him.

Perhaps, 'Falanamee reflected as he turned back to the command deck, with good reason.

"Shall I prepare the _Sacrosanct_ for engagement, Supreme Commander?" 'Adralee asked.

"Hold."

The ship master looked at him in consternation. "Excellency?"

'Falanamee stared back at the warrior, an odd look on his long face. He could tell that 'Adralee had tensed at Wattinree's words; decades of personal combat had given him a keen ability to read the postures of others, friend and foe alike. What mattered, however, was _why_ he had tensed. Although a plan was still only half-formed in 'Falanamee's mind, he knew that the answer to that question might well decide far more than the next move in the battle.

"The fighting near Pale Throne is fierce, Ship Master," 'Falanamee said at last, choosing his words with extreme care. "You are prepared to die to fulfill this assignment?"

'Adralee straightened and threw up his split chin. "I would throw down my life for the Holy Covenant in an instant, as would all of its warriors. My skill, my being is worth nothing if I do not give it fully in protection of the god's legacy and the promise of the Great Journey."

"I did not question your loyalty to the Covenant, or your bravery in the face of battle. I asked if you were willing to die for _this_ objective. Will you sacrifice yourself and all of the warriors who fight for you to save these few Prophets?"

"If… if that is the edict of the Imperial Admiral and the design of the High Prophets."

'Falanamee drew closer to the ship master, until they stood barely a pace apart, eye to eye. "You faltered, Ship Master."

"No, Excellency. My will is firm. The life of a single Prophet is worth more than all on this ship, if the Prophets have deigned it so."

"We do not have time for evasion or deception," 'Falanamee growled, ignoring his words. "Speak with your mind and your heart. This is not the time to fall back upon old platitudes and worn traditions. Speak!"

The ship master bristled at the verbal onslaught, but it took him several moments to find his voice again. "I… do not believe that sacrificing the warriors of this fleet to save those Prophets is in the best interests of the Covenant." The blasphemy of the words seemed to lash him as they left his gullet, but 'Falanamee did not react in outrage, as he had feared. Within the Supreme Commander's unblinking eyes, he instead expectation, and was seized by a new boldness. "I do not believe that Imperial Admiral Wattinree has been right to extinguish so many warships in the attempt to hold this system. I do not believe that the High Prophets were right to send this fleet here at all. We are warriors, proud and mighty Sangheili, not tools to be exhausted upon inconsequential fancies and replaced."

"Why do you think that the Hierarchs have used us as such, 'Adralee?" the Supreme Commander asked.

The sudden passion that had flared in the warrior faltered, and he seemed to deflate. "I do not know."

'Falanamee placed a firm hand on 'Adralee's right shoulder. He could see in the warrior the shock, the sudden despair of having an entire life's work called into question. He had felt the same terrible uncertainty and fear not so long ago, as he plummeted towards death, betrayed by Tartarus on the orders of the Prophets themselves. It had not been easy to fight on, but 'Falanamee could see strength in the younger warrior, power that would not be extinguished easily. He had the heart of an Arbiter.

"I do not know either, my friend, but I will find out why they have betrayed us. Will you come with me?"

'Adralee slowly raised his eyes to meet the Supreme Commander's once again. "What must I do?"

'Falanamee squeezed the other's armored shoulder, and then turned away to face the rest of the _Sacrosanct_'s command crew.

"You all have heard our words. Will you follow us to the source of this betrayal, wherever that course might take us?"

The Sangheili glanced at one another furtively, but one by one, they each pumped their chests in salute, and stood at attention before the Supreme Commander.

"Then charge the interstellar drives and prepare the ship for immediate departure. Instruct the other ship masters to do the same, and inform them that I will contact each as soon as we depart."

"I will require the swiftest communication probe in your arsenal," he added to the ship master. "Have it brought to my chambers immediately, and prepare to have the vessel brought back out of slipspace soon after we exit this system so that it can be dispatched."

"It will be done, Excellency," 'Adralee replied. "What course should I set for the fleet's departure?"

'Falanamee considered briefly. He still had a chance to turn back, to follow Wattinree's directive, to save the lesser Prophets from the hands of the Imperials, to die in battle, his heresy known only to a few. But he knew that he would not be the only one to perish. Even if, somehow, the Galactic Empire's advance was turned back, he knew that his people would not survive conflict. The last edict of the Prophets had convinced him of that. There was only one option, and it involved in the greatest betrayal in the history of the Covenant. Many more soldiers, loyal and treacherous, would die because of the undertaking. But the Sangheili would survive.

"Take us to the Asphodel system," he said at last. "To High Charity."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lumiya watched intently as the computer screen before her generated a long sequence of text that stretched from the top of the sizeable display to the very bottom and beyond, reading each brief line as it passed. The list, introduced into the system by a copied datacard the Dark Jedi had inserted into one of its many inputs, bore the names of the dozens of sentients that Aayla had contacted and "evaluated" over the previous weeks. Many of the names were displayed in an unremarkable font, but more than a few bore a jarring red coloration. Those had been the individuals who had "failed" the Twi'lek's test, whatever it was. As she confirmed that each man, woman, and alien had indeed been a destination on the other's grim campaign, she could peripherally recall the death throes of the few she had played a role in dispatching, and a base satisfaction bubbled up in the back of her mind.

The feeling quickly subsided as the cyborg set about her self-assigned task.

Since their arrival on Coruscant, Lumiya and her companion had kept largely to the Imperial Palace. Aayla seemed unconcerned with the murmurings of confusion and unrest at her master's recent ascension and sudden departure amongst the planet's gentry and general populace, and had made no attempt to ensure that Lord Vader's will was still being carried out by the weakened political establishment he had left in place. Indeed, Lumiya had barely seen her at all, save in passing; she prowled the palace's expansive, well-appointed hallways and chambers night and day with a confident, contemplative air, or disappeared for hours at a time within the labyrinth of foreboding, cryptic passages that were buried deep beneath the monolithic, gray-green pyramid.

Lumiya had welcomed this reclusive behavior. The profound, nameless unease she felt in the other acolyte's presence persisted, and she could only focus herself when the alien was separated by floors of polished rock and cortosis plate. Besides, with her status as aide to Vader's direct subordinate, Lumiya found herself with almost unfettered access to the massive complex's overwhelming number and variety of facilities. The three kilometer tall citadel and the dozens of adjacent structures hosted military and intelligence offices of every branch and service, exotic armories and holographic training rooms, breathtaking gardens and galleries of artifacts plundered from ten thousand worlds. Presently, she sat within one of the impressive libraries that were built into every residential floor, overflowing with manuscripts, texts, maps, and logs on every imaginable medium and subject.

Still, the luxurious accommodations and her respectful, almost reverent treatment by the staff had not been sufficient to take Lumiya's mind fully off her discomfort. The more time she had had to reflect upon their bloody tour while wandering through the capital peak, the more she felt something with it was wrong. So, she had decided at last to put the palace's extensive facilities, specifically its computer mainframe, to work.

Methodically, the Dark Jedi began to read the data files that the system held on each of the names on Aayla's list, searching each for the smallest clue as to what might be bothering her. The tally was quite diverse, as she had known it would be; Moffs, admirals, soldiers, civilians, all listed one after another. Some of the enumerated jumped out at her immediately, like Imperial Intelligence Director Ysanne Isard, whose interrogation had been brief and ultimately bloodless, and Admiral Harrsk of the Imperial Starfleet, who had been far less successful in gaining Aayla's vital favor. Other names were so obscure that Lumiya was surprised that Lord Vader even knew they existed, much less suspected them of treachery.

Cycling past a sectorial bureaucrat by the name of Disra who Aayla had eliminated for no reason Lumiya could discern, she selected another link, and was rewarded with the gaunt, severe profile of an older human male. The name next to the picture read Grand Vizier Sate Pestage. Vaguely recognizing the title, she scanned his personal profile and service record. Pestage had served under Palpatine long before his ascension to the Imperial throne, or indeed, to the office of Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. He was a close and competent aide, tasked with everything from organizing his master's daily schedule to making announcements on his behalf to orchestrating affairs of state that were below the Emperor's attention. If anyone was to remain loyal to the old ruler after his death, Lumiya thought, it would be this man.

Pulling up the list again, Lumiya was intrigued to find that Pestage had not been one of those to fall to Aayla's blade, despite his overt allegiance to Palpatine and his New Order. In fact, as she thought back on their crusade, she couldn't recall him even being mentioned as a potential target.

A quick search on the official's current status revealed that he had vanished from the Imperial Center a few days after Darth Vader's ascension, taking a private shuttle and a few personal guards with him. The reasons behind his flight were unstated, but considering the fact that most of the Emperor's Inner Circle was executed the following evening, Lumiya suspected that he was simply cagier than his former comrades.

The acolyte leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms in consternation. Pestage's disappearance still didn't explain why they hadn't tried to track him down; several of the other marks on the list had made themselves scarce following the Imperial power shift. Full access to COMPNOR security reports and intelligence files from every corner of the Empire, combined with the Twi'lek's uncanny Force perception, had made locating them a relatively simple task. A personage as high-profile as the Grand Vizier shouldn't have been far more difficult to uncover.

Unable to glean anything further from the palace computer, Lumiya exited the library and began to pace through the complex's wide corridors, lost in contemplation. The teachings of the Dark Side, aggression, emotion, action, were not fully compatible with deep meditation, but her solitary training on Ziost had cultivated in her a certain consideration that some of her more chaotic predecessors lacked. Nevertheless, the nature of Pestage's disappearance and the larger mysteries surrounding it continued to elude her, and she wandered through the ornate hallways for some time, aimless and distracted.

Almost without noticing her progress, Lumiya descended from the Imperial Palace's upper, private levels to the bulwarked sections that housed innumerable security and maintenance areas. Lower still, she passed by the street-level divisions; endless ranks of bureaucratic offices, cathedral-like audience halls, treasuries, and detainment facilities. Only when Lumiya had entered the sub-surface portion of the artificial mountain did she rouse herself from her contemplation and take stock of her surroundings.

"May I be of service, Lady Lumiya?" an army officer asked politely in a clipped, Coruscanti accent.

The cyborg found herself at one of the many checkpoints that guarded the lift systems into the Imperial Palace's lower levels. The questioning soldier stood at attention behind his spartan desk, which bore controls for the biometric scanners, weapons detectors, and automated defense systems strategically placed around the small chamber. Two gray-uniformed troopers flanked the turbolift hatch at the far end of the room, rifles clipped to their belts and arms held stiffly at their backs. A casual scan of the three men revealed a mixture of curiosity and fear; the former feeling probably triggered by the sight of any visitor more exotic the standard fair of tight-lipped intelligence agents, bored bureaucrats, and expressionless droids.

Her cloaked appearance and reputation as a servant of Lord Vader's explained the latter. Her powers were nothing next to that of her Sith Master or many of the Jedi that he had hunted down and slain, but she could still kill the trio of guards without a second thought, and they seemed to know it on an instinctual level.

"No," she replied. "Simply allow me access to the lift."

"Of course, my lady." The officer tapped a few commands into his computer terminal, and the turbolift doors slid open. Lumiya advanced towards the exposed cubicle without another word, ignoring the salutes of the flanking guards as she passed.

"If you are looking Lord Vader's apprentice, she passed through here less than half an hour ago. I believe she was headed for sublevel four." The turbolift's doors cut the soldier's afterthought short, but the information still gave Lumiya pause. Sublevel four was one of the deepest and most secure sections of the complex, barred from her even when she had served as an Emperor's Hand, one of Palpatine's elite. What would Aayla be doing there?

With a quick command, the lift detached from its magnetic moorings and plummeted down its shaft, streaking past grids of armor plating designed to withstand orbital bombardments and hidden chambers that housed secrets privy only to the supreme ruler of the galaxy and his closest confidants. The trip lasted only a few seconds, but Lumiya began to sense the Twi'lek's presence before the compartment even began to slow.

Now, though, the sensation was not merely unsettling. It chilled her to the core.

Pushing through the undefined warning signals that wailed in the back of her mind, Lumiya burst from the lift and made off down an empty corridor. The sublevel was a collection of crisscrossing, featureless passageways, lined by dozens of similarly uniform doorways, but the Dark Jedi did not hesitate as she turned down one corridor and then another. Aayla's presence was a beacon, alluring and terrible in its strength.

When she came to a pair of non-descript metal doors at the end of one corridor, she paused, suddenly unsure of herself. Why was she seeking Aayla out? The two had avoided each other since their mission had been fulfilled. Why broach that distance now? Lumiya couldn't even recall why she had chosen to continue on into the depths of the palace over the course of her rumination; it was as though she had been drawn there by there by something far behind her conscious comprehension.

Of course, that thing, the Dark Jedi realized, was the Force. But it was the duty of the Jedi to adhere to that mystical flow, not the followers of the Sith. They were the masters of the Force, shapers of their own destinies, not pawns of some abstract will.

Bristling at her own lack of focus, Lumiya turned from the doorway, intent upon returning to the more well-traveled areas of the facility. Before she could take a step, however, a new sensation grazed the edge of her perception. The presence was indistinct, clouded by Aayla's own, but it only took her a few moments to recognize it for what it was.

The barrier slid away soundlessly, revealing a moderately-sized, barely lit room of a cold and practical style that she immediately identified as a treatment chamber. Cloaked in the shadows undiminished by the dim light, automated medical analysis equipment dominated the walls, their outlines ominous and imposing. Beyond a set of inactive mechanical armatures mounted in the ceiling, a bacta tank sat recessed at the center point of the back wall. Clearly illuminated by warm back-lights, the three-meter, transparent tube caught Lumiya's attention immediately, and she knew the figure that was suspended within it before she even saw his scarred face.

"Skywalker."

"You've met him?" Aayla stood nearby the tank, slowly typing commands into the device's free-standing interface panel.

"Yes," the cyborg said, moving closer to the floating, motionless form. "Before my training in the Dark Side, I served as an agent of Imperial Intelligence. After Grand Moff Tarkin failed to wipe out the Rebellion at Yavin, Lord Vader instructed me to infiltrate the Rebel Alliance and destroy it from within. Luke Skywalker discovered me, shot down my starfighter, and left me for dead. I survived, mutilated and forever confined by these wrappings and implants." She stopped before the young Jedi's damaged face, and starred at it in a mixture of rage and disgust.

"How did he get here?"

"Vader captured and confronted him during the rout of the rebel fleet at Sullust," Aayla replied, not looking up from her work. "The two dueled, and Skywalker was mortally wounded."

Lumiya turned to face the Twi'lek. "But then why is he still alive? This boy destroyed the Death Star. He killed millions of Imperial soldiers. He is the hope of the Rebellion, and has been enslaved by the teachings of the Jedi Order. Why would the Dark Lord save him from death, and hide him away here, on the Imperial Center?"

"Because he is Darth Vader's son."

Lumiya's green eyes widened. "His son? How… Lord Vader never spoke of any offspring."

"He was hidden," Aayla explained, almost disinterestedly. "Stolen away from Palpatine at the dawn of his New Order. Even Vader did not know of his heir until they encountered one another at Yavin Four. He found his son an enemy of the Empire and pawn of the few Jedi who survived the Great Purge, and so Vader devoted himself to hunting the boy down. They fought twice, and Skywalker was defeated twice. Yet, Vader never slew him, or turned him from the Light." A humorless sneer creased Aayla's face. "Such is the power of love."

Lumiya looked back at the man, her anger giving way to amazement. Not only had her master fathered a child, he had defied the Emperor's fatal edict against the Jedi Order and spared his life. The Vader she knew was not subject to sentimentality or mercy. Skywalker must have great potential indeed to be spared and maintained even after all of his trespasses. Either that, or the Dark Lord truly did care…

She abandoned the idea quickly. No Sith as powerful and focused as Darth Vader would be flawed by such a weakness. Keeping an enemy alive, flesh and blood or no, with no reason beyond familial affection directly defied the teachings of the Sith. The only duty was to oneself. Others, servant and family alike, were ultimately tools for personal advancement, and nothing more.

Lord Vader had a sound reason for preserving Skywalker, and she would not attempt to second guess his methods. The wounded Jedi had fallen under the Sith's protection, and she would honor that bond.

One of the diagnostic monitors mounted on the side of the bacta tank emitted a warning tone. The lights that defined the inert figure within began to dim, and the low hum of the machinery that continual cycled and filtered the bacterial solution in which Luke Skywalker was immersed quieted.

"What's going on?" Lumiya asked, checking the human's life sign readings, which were starting to fluctuate. "Why is the machine powering down?"

Aayla did not respond. Looking towards her, Lumiya found that the alien was still methodically tapping at the chamber's control panel, apparently unconcerned by its immanent shutdown.

The Dark Jedi placed a hand warily upon the weapon affixed to her belt and took a step towards the Twi'lek. "Stop what you're doing, Aayla. Step away from the interface."

An invisible hand grasped hold of Lumiya's torso and flung her back, sending the cyborg careening into a row of antitoxin dispensers. When she was a heap of metal and armorweave sprawled across the floor, the pressure dissipated; the sudden attack had not required Aayla to even look up from her work.

Regaining her breath and instinctively steeling her senses from combat, Lumiya grabbed hold of a dented container and pulled herself up onto one knee. She had neither expected nor anticipated blow, and even her Force-attuned martial senses had been unable to pick up on Aayla's move before she was hurtling backwards across the medical room. The Twi'lek's uncanny speed was unnerving, but Lumiya managed to retain her focus.

"Stop!" she growled. "Skywalker has been taken by my master, our master, and he will deal with him when and how he sees fit. I will not let you kill him."

"Do not interfere."

Lumiya felt a familiar tightness settle around her neck. Lord Vader had trained her to identify and combat dozens of different Force techniques, Jedi and Sith alike, and this was one of his favorites. Immediately, she threw up a mental barrier around her windpipe, gasping for breath as an unseen vice began to squeeze hard on her throat. Her free hand flew in Aayla's direction, and a mental impulse activated a cybernetic implant in her wrist. Its palm ignited with sanguine flame, and a blaster bolt burst from it. The glowing lance angled at the Twi'lek's chest, but the snap-hiss of a lightsaber blade filled the chamber, and the bolt burrowed harmlessly into the floor behind Aayla.

Lumiya's weapon flew into her own hand as she leapt to her feet, and the lightwhip's four metallic lashes uncoiled in the air around her. Each filament sheathed itself in coherent lightning, and the cyborg lunged, pulling back her hilt in preparation for a blow. Aayla watched her streak forward impassively until an instant before the cyborg reached her, and then ducked, allowing the energized strands to rake the empty air. Undeterred, Lumiya arrested her forward momentum and pirouetted around, her weapons snaking back with her in staggered bands.

Aayla rolled sideways towards the rear wall to avoid the attack, ignoring the heat of the lightwhip as it grazed one of her lekku. Planting her feet on the vertical surface, she pushed towards Lumiya low across the floor, slashing at the other's legs with her blade. Lumiya leapt upwards, propelled herself behind the Twi'lek, and landed with arms and legs splayed, ready to lunge again. Aayla also regained her footing, but rather than press the offensive, she drew back a few steps, positioning her blue blade before her, firmly clasped in both hands. Less willing to give her attacker respite, Lumiya lifted her left palm and primed its blaster projector for another shot.

Aayla easily deflected the blast, sweeping her lightsaber horizontally to both plant the bolt in the wall and meet Lumiya's new onslaught; an instant after she fired off her shot, the cyborg had come at Aayla from the right, her weapon a whirling vortex of energy. Blade and whip clashed momentarily, but the flexible strands deftly wrapped around the static sword and probed onward towards the alien's unprotected side. However, before they reached their target, the filaments twitched and went flat, their guiding force distracted. Taking advantage of Lumiya's aggressive push, Aayla had summoned several pieces of loose machinery from the walls behind her, and the objects were now pelting the cyborg form all sides. A bulky restraining assembly rapped her across the weapon's hand, and her grip on the lightwhip loosened slightly.

The momentary weakness was all that Aayla required. Moving within arms length, she simultaneous slashed Lumiya across the hip and willed the hilt from her jarred hand with a blast of telekinetic energy. Grunting in pain, Lumiya attempted to move away from the other combatant, but Aayla latched onto her frayed cape and pulled it around the cyborg, making her stumble and forcing her to divert her mental resources to repel the invisible assault. Again, the Twi'lek took used her distraction to move closer, and Lumiya lashed out at her with a free leg, aiming high for her head. Aayla noted the incoming blow peripherally and ducked to avoid it, raising in place of her head the blue shaft of her lightsaber.

Separated from the lower half of her leg, Lumiya lost her balance completely and fell to the floor. The limb was largely prosthetic, but the shock of losing it in such a way shattered what remained of her concentration, and Aayla moved over her quarry unopposed. Dropping to her knees, the Twi'lek straddled the wounded cyborg and slid her lightsaber neatly into the gap between collarbone and chin.

Lumiya glanced at the glowing blade, and then shifted her gaze back to Aayla, who stared back without any sign of emotion visible on her face. She hadn't even broken a sweat. Her eyes, which had shown with a cruel pleasure as she prepared herself for previous kills, burned with a different energy, one unlike any Lumiya had ever witnessed before. As she looked into them, the aura that had for so long unnerved her froze her heart.

"What are you?" Lumiya whispered.

Aayla's mouth opened slightly, stopped, and then curved into a grim smile.

"Free."

A swift downward thrust ensured that Aayla's ruthless visage would be burned forever into Lumiya's eyes.

The Twi'lek rose, deactivated and stowed her weapon, and moved casually back to the bacta tank's control panel. A single index finger moved across the surface, purposefully pressing a final sequence of keys. In response, filter slits at the top and bottom of the tank revealed themselves, and jets of antibacterial protein poured into the solution, tinting the bluish liquid a sickly yellow. As the chamber filled with the substance, vital-sign monitors mounted on its side began to deviate more widely, and one even began to emit a plaintive warning peal. Aayla simply shut it off, along with every other devices attached to the cylinder, until only dim lights remained, casting Luke Skywalker's expressionless face in deeper and deeper shadow as the yellowish coloration condensed and clouded the liquid.

Aayla watched the Jedi disappear into the fog for a long time, until the features of his battered, weary face were no longer discernable.

"And now, Skywalker, only your father remains," she said quietly, running an ungloved hand over the smooth surface.

Then she reached for the master control once more, found the appropriate command, and depressed it. The tank's lights faded to blackness, and shadow engulfed the lifeless form completely.


	44. Chapter Sixty Two

**Chapter Sixty Two**

Deep Space Nine's large wardroom was quiet. The chamber was packed nearly to capacity with men and women of every species and uniform, but very few of them spoke, and what little conversation there was barely registered over the faint ambient hum of the space station and the collective breathing of two dozen sentients. Tension pervaded the space, on the faces of the attendees and in the very air itself; brief, grim glances were traded only sporadically, and even subtle fidgeting was carefully controlled as to not break the heavy silence. Each waited, both anxious for and terrified of the words that would inevitably intrude upon their muted gloom.

The Allied armada's last champions were seated around the long, hexagonal table at the center of the room. Fleet Admiral Nechayev was positioned at one end, and General K'Nera faced her across the smooth expanse of metal. Between them, Captain Picard, Councilor Leia Organa, and High Templar Tassadar filled one side. On the other, backed by a bank of circular viewports, sat Shakaar Edon, First Minister of Bajor, Commander Suran, flag officer of the Romulan task force, and the Cardassian Legate Ekoor, de facto spokesman for the motley collection of vessels from Cardassia, Ferenginar, and a dozen other worlds that had thrown their lot in with the Federation and its allies against the Zerg.

Standing around them were the most prominent admirals, captains, and commanders of the Allied force who could be spared from patrol duties. Shoulder to shoulder with Leia's ever-present protocol droid, Commander Gavplek stood stiff and distracted, one cheek covered with a bacta wrap, a token of his narrow escape from the _Republica_. With Captain Ryceed unconscious in Deep Space Nine's sickbay, the human was the acting executive of what remained of the Alliance detachment. Truul and the Master Chief were rooted nearby, and Jacen Solo observed the proceedings from a far wall, removed and watchful as always. Even Han Solo and his wookiee copilot had found it necessary to leave the _Millennium Falcon_ for the meeting, and waited behind the ranks of Allied officers, Han's eyes fixed protectively on Councilor Organa.

Legate Ekoor glanced furtively at those seated around him, and then stiffened his scaled neck. "Well, what is to be done?"

Admiral Nechayev squeezed her interlocked fingers together until their thin knuckles shown white. "Our overarching campaign strategy must be reassessed."

"Campaign strategy?" Commander Suran said loudly, furrowing his prominent eyebrows. "What campaign? Our only advantage against the Zerg has been lost. Without the _Republica_, this fleet has little hope of retaking a single occupied system, much less the entire Alpha Quadrant.

"And what would you have us do, Suran?" K'Nera growled. "Hole up around this world and wait for the Swarm to strip our flesh from our bones? Flee into deep space and abandon what is left of our peoples to death?"

"The Romulan Star Empire still stands, General, and it will not fall easily," Suran said. "Perhaps, if we waited before throwing our lives away in a futile campaign, this Alliance could dispatch another emissary to the Senate on Romulus. I'm sure some accommodation for the transfer of refugees could be reached if a military force of this size was offered to supplement the Imperial Fleet…"

"I will not serve under the heel of your cowardly masters, Romulan," K'Nera spat. "My soldiers will not wait idly around your worlds as Klingon Space is violated by the presence of the Zerg. They would rather die in battle, and I with them."

"You needn't tell us that, Klingon," Suran said in disgust. "We all know how willing your people are to destroy themselves and anyone around them for the sake of your personal honor. Go then. Take your ships and dash them against the Swarm. The loss of your blustering cannot hinder the war effort greatly."

K'Nera jerked upward out of his seat and slapped his hand onto the hilt of the dagger affixed to his waist, but before he could unsheathe it, Captain Picard was also on his feet.

"Enough! Sit down, General!" He turned an enflamed stare on the Romulan flag officer, who had also begun to move for the weapon ensconced on his person. "And you, Admiral! Calm yourself! I will not allow old feuds to tear this alliance apart! Remember what we -all of us- are fighting for. Think of how pointless these squabbles will become if the Zerg are the only other organisms left in the galaxy to observe them."

Both aliens paused, and after an exchange of acid looks, settled back into relative, if somewhat superficial, repose.

When he was certain that the risk of open violence had passed, Picard continued. "Now, Suran, your concerns are warranted, and your offer of potential asylum is appreciated, but I do not believe that any of the officers and soldiers of this fleet would be willing to so completely abandon their homes. If they were, this fleet would have dispersed into the depths of space a long time ago."

"The Captain is correct, Admiral," Nechayev put in. "The Federation will not leave the Alpha Quadrant to the Zerg. Not while a single Starfleet vessel can still fire its weapons. We've already lost far too much to withdraw now."

"I believe I speak for the people of Bajor when I say that we will continue to stand by and sustain this fleet as long as we can," First Minister Edon said. "And our world remains open to those among you who cannot fight."

Suran slid back in his chair, a frown etched deeply into his features, but he remained silent.

Admiral Nechayev offered a nod of thanks to the Bajoran, and then turned back to the other commanders. "Now, as I said, we must reconsider our strategy against the Zerg. Without the _Republica_, it will no longer be possible to retake and hold as many key worlds as we had initially hoped. Even considering their losses during the recent raid, the fleets controlled by the Swarm outmatch this armada by a significant margin, more than two to one. Their continued infrastructural advantage is another matter that must be considered. In time, they will be able to replace their casualties. At present, we cannot."

"Then we must ensure that they are not given that time." All eyes turned to Tassadar. "The Zerg have been thrown off-balance by the loss here. It will not take Kerrigan long to reform her designs and bolster her hordes, but right now, she is weak. We must strike the Swarm at its heart. We must kill its queen."

Ekoor regarded the Protoss skeptically. "Without the _Republica_, this fleet lacks the firepower necessary to mount any major offensive against the Swarm. How can we hope to defeat its master?"

"The location of this Kerrigan isn't even known, at least not to my intelligence agents," Suran said.

Tassadar was silent for a moment, his piercing gaze not focused on any obvious target. "I know where she lurks. The human homeworld, where this infestation began."

Ekoor remained unconvinced. "How could you know that?"

"During her flight, our minds touched, and for an instant, I could perceive her intent. Kerrigan is there."

Noting the incredulity evident on the faces of several of those assembled, Picard raised his voice once more. "The High Templar's insight and intuition have been more than reliable in the past. It has been his intelligence just as much as the assistance of the Alliance that has allowed us to resist the Zerg advance as well as we have since their arrival. If Tassadar believes that Kerrigan retreated to Earth, then I trust that we will find her there."

"There _is_ intelligence that would support Tassadar's supposition," Nechayev, raising her hands to her chin pensively. "As much as I dislike falling back on hearsay, there were rumors early in the war from the some of the survivors of Sol that an entity fitting the description of the Zerg Queen was sighted overseeing the seizure of Earth. It is possible that she is still using it as her headquarters."

"My scouts did report an unusually high concentration of vessels around Sector 001 during their last foray near the region," General K'Nera said, finally tearing his eyes from Suran. "The information is old, but it may still be valid."

Ekoor nodded slowly. "Very well. Let us assume that Kerrigan is on Earth. We still must get to her, and as the General implied, she will probably have a large portion of her forces amassed for her defense, whether she expects an attack or not. Can we defeat the Swarm in an open engagement?"

"We can't begin to predict that until we have more up to date information on the system," Nechayev pointed out. "Kerrigan's cumulative forces outnumber ours, but her fleets are still expanding into the outer territories of the Federation and the Klingon Empire. Her core vanguard may be relatively weak."

"What force of arms she holds there now is irrelevant," Tassadar said. "Just as we know that she is weakened, the Queen of Blades knows that the loss of the _Republica_ has greatly weakened the armada here. She will draw in what broods she can to regenerate her main fleet, and then launch an overwhelming assault against this planet. If we tarry, her fortress will become unassailable, and this one will fall. We must strike now, no matter the odds that stand against us."

The captains and commanders standing around the war council exchanged a flurry of earnest whispers. Their tones indicated uncertainty and no small amount of fear, but there was hope there as well. Many of them had given up on the prospect of victory as the _Republica_ erupted into flame before their viewscreens. It was obvious that Tassadar's proposal would demand a heavy toll, and he offered no illusions of certain or even likely success, but the plan was still something. After constant retreat and desperate, aimless fighting, many of the soldiers found the prospect of a last charge at the very heart of their foe far more palatable than yet another flight.

"We may have lost the _Republica_, but the Alliance will still honor its vow to stand alongside the free people of this galaxy," Leia Organa said evenly, her face proud. The destruction of her escort craft and the loss of much of its crew had shaken her deeply, but she was far too practiced a diplomat to let that uncertainty show. "Our fighter squadrons are still operational, and their pilots will fulfill whatever roles that this assembly gives them."

Han Solo crossed his arms and grimaced. "Always nice to be volunteered for suicide missions, isn't it Chewie?"

The Wookiee replied with a half-hearted moan, and the human nodded. "Yeah, I know." Both had thrown their lot in with the Alliance a long time ago, for all the peril and regulation that it engendered. If Leia believed that defeating these Zerg could help salvage the Rebellion, then he would give himself fully to the effort. Besides, the honorable rogue in him couldn't feel anything but hatred for the ruthless and savage threat that the Swarm represented. And then there was the matter of the _Republica_ itself. Even as a General of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, a respectable freedom-fighter and leader of men, Han wasn't above payback.

Commander Gavplek was less enthusiastic. "Councilor Organa, I must remind you that without the _Republica_'s munitions and fuel stores, the effectiveness of its squadrons are greatly diminished. The flight commanders estimate that each fighter has enough consumables available for one, perhaps two engagements, but no more. Any long-range hyperspace jumps or extensive maneuvering will reduce their operational time even further."

"That is all the more reason to engage Kerrigan as soon as possible," Captain Picard replied, drawing attention back to him. "I can understand why some of you are reluctant to commit your warships and the lives of those under your command to such a risky strategy. Indeed, all of us should be. Nevertheless, the destruction of the _Republica_ has deprived us of our best hope for victory. If we do not exploit what little of the initiative in this war we have left, its terms will return completely to the Zerg. If that happens, I am certain that no fortress or free world for a thousand light-years will be able to weather their onslaught. This is our last chance, and if we do not agree to take it now, it will be lost forever, and us with it."

No one spoke for a moment. The Captain hadn't said anything profoundly new, but he had given voice to the thoughts that already pervaded the room. The blunt and explicit finality of his words would have been enough to inspire despair in another assembly, but many of the observers had no room left for any more hopelessness. And in the absence of desperation, determination grew.

Fleet Admiral Nechayev blew out a long sigh, and then nodded slowly. "As I can see no other viable option, I am inclined to commit all of the resources at Starfleet's disposal to Tassadar's plan. I will not speak for the rest of you, however."

"You will have every warship and warrior that the Klingon people can muster," General K'Nera declared, raising his bearded chin proudly. "We will see Qo'nos avenged, no matter the cost."

Ekoor glanced at each of the other leaders around him, and then he too nodded. "If both the Federation and the Klingon Empire are willing to take such a risk, then the rest of the fleet will follow them. You have my support."

With Leia's allegiance already known, all eyes turned once again on Suran. The Romulan was still glowering, and did not immediately speak. Instead, he fidgeted with the burnished pin of a predatory bird on the formal sash slung over his chest, deliberately ignoring the anticipatory crowd. One his lieutenants let his arms fall slowly to his sides, and it appeared as though he was about to prompt his superior when Suran let go of the ornament and rose abruptly from his chair.

"This strategy is both unnecessary and ill-advised, and I will not allow the vessels under my command to play any part in it. All Romulan assets associated with this fleet are hereby withdrawn, and the task force will return to the Star Empire as soon as I board my flagship."

"Commander, wait…" Nechayev began, but the Romulan had already turned his back on the table. Flanked by his two subordinates, Suran made for the wardroom's exit, ignoring the shocked looks and resentful whispers of the soldiers who reluctantly parted before him. When he reached the door, he paused and turned back to face the other flag officers.

"I implore you, reconsider. I… the Romulan people have no desire to see the Federation, or the Cardassian Union, or even the Klingon Empire vanquished. My fleet will remain in the Kazis system, near the Neutral Zone, for several days before I continue on to Romulus. I will await word there."

Captain Picard stood slowly, and met his counterpart eye to eye. "You must understand, Suran, that if we join you, we will have been defeated. A kinder fall, perhaps, but in the end, the result would be the same."

Suran's lips quivered as though he was about to say something, but he remained silent, looked about the assembly one last time, and then stepped through the door, his officers close on his heels.

"Shouldn't we try and stop him, Admiral?" a Starfleet captain asked, shaking off the shock of Suran's sudden departure.

"No. Let him go. I doubt that we could do or say anything to change his mind, and I'm not prepared to keep the Romulans here by force. We will have to make due without their assistance." Nechayev's face was stiffly expressionless as she spoke, and a hint of pallor began to settle onto her features. The loss of thirty cloak-enabled line warships was not enough to completely undermine the viability of an armada of hundreds, but no matter what they found around Earth, the Admiral knew that even a slight reduction in the force's overall strength could shift the tide of battle to the defender's favor. Still, nothing could be done. Suran had made his decision.

Seeing that the others were similarly distracted by the abrupt abdication, Nechayev swiftly pulled herself together and brought them back to the business at hand. "We'll need to dispatch a few ships before the main bulk of the fleet to gather what data we can on the composition and distribution of Earth's defenses. It will take about forty hours at maximum warp to reach the Sol system, so we need to locate a captain willing to undertake the operation immediately."

"I'll go." Han waded through the crowd to the tableside. "The _Millennium Falcon_ is faster than any of the other starfighters in the Commander's squadrons. Just give me navigational data on the route to Earth, and I can be in-system in a few hours. It'll only take a few more hours to take a few long-range scans of the planet and its defenses, and I'll be back here before your fleet is ready to get underway."

He noticed the uneasy look on Leia Organa's face. "Don't worry, Councilor. Just reconnaissance, and then I'm out of there. I doubt that the Zerg have anything that can keep up with the _Falcon_, and Chewie wouldn't let me stick around to cause any trouble by myself even if I wanted to."

The Wookiee mumbled something wearily, and the General grinned. "See?"

"You're assistance is greatly appreciated, General Solo," Nechayev said formally, saving Leia from having to respond. "I'll have the relevant astrometric data transmitted to your ship, and one of my officers will brief you on specific targets you should monitor."

"Now, how soon can the fleet be fully prepped and outfitted for combat?"

"Cortana has been monitoring the operation of out shipyards and repair satellites," Picard said, and then punched a key on the small interface inlaid on the table before him. "Cortana?"

A large display screen at one end of the wardroom flickered to life, and the artificial intelligence's disembodied voice directed the attention of the Allied leaders to the figures and schematics flowing across its surface.

"If re-supply operations continue at their current rate, all functional warships should be fully rearmed and supplied by twenty-three hundred hours. However, it will take at least twenty-five more hours to effect repairs necessary to restore the combat effectiveness of fourteen ships damaged in the recent engagement with the Zerg, most of them from General K'nera's Vor'cha attack cruiser squadron." Small representations of the formidable, winged craft lined up on the display, each of them displayed with areas of their hulls marked with red, indicators of damage. "A further half dozen warships will not be functional for at least a week."

"I recognize the urgency of the impending battle, but I would ask that we delay our departure long enough to allow my attack cruisers to join us in battle," K'Nera said, carefully scanning the name of each temporarily incapacitated ship.

"Agreed," Nechayev replied. "We will use the time to reorganize fleet structure for the assault and analyze the data Genera Solo will acquire. Major Truul, Master Chief, how quickly do you think that you can organize and supply a few companies of ground troops from our existing marine corps? If Kerrigan is our final objective, we may have need of them."

Truul glanced at the Spartan next to him briefly and considered for a moment. "We'll, ma'am, if you give me two days, I can give you about two thousand shock troopers. The Chief and I have already begun marking out units and selecting field officers. Still, we haven't had any time to train any of your marines for the kind combat they'll probably see on an infested planet, and we don't have anything in the way of combined arms."

"I understand, Major. Their existing training and equipment will have to suffice. Just give me as many infantry units as you can, as quickly as you can."

The two saluted in unison. "Ma'am."

Nechayev nodded and then took a deep breath before continuing. "Alright. I want this fleet ready to deploy in forty-eight hours. Squadron commanders, return to your ships and begin drilling your crews for combat operations. When General Solo returns, I'll reconvene here with the fleet commanders to discuss our battle strategy. Let's not waste time until then. We all know what's at stake. Dismissed."

The assembly dissolved into small groups of eagerly conversing officers who quickly made for the exit hatch and their waiting vessels. As Councilor Organa held a hurried conference with Gavplek, Truul, and Solo and the Bajoran First Minister took Nechayev aside to discuss matters of planetary defense, Picard remained seated, his attention focused on the interface upon which his right hand rested. His face impassive, the Captain keyed a sequence of commands. Without a word, the information Cortana had displayed on the chamber's screen faded away. Picard punched in a final series of digits, glanced at the brief message that cycled across the interface's tiny alphanumeric strip, and then lifted himself from his seat. As he moved to join his fellow commanders, his eyes flickered towards the wide viewport that lined the exterior wall, beyond which the minute forms of thirty starships began to ease into motion.

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"Step aside, Jiralhanae. Your cohort is blocking the way."

Five sets of beady, crimson eyes focused on the Sangheili who had spoken, a blue-armored soldier with a streamlined plasma carbine slung proudly at his side. Behind him, half a dozen other minor infantrymen stood, their hands resting on weapons or balled up before them. Each was of moderate build and stature, and the coloration of their uniforms indicated a lack of significant combat experience, but the slow wavering of their open jaws and stiff posture gave them a distinctly menacing appearance.

The five Jiralhanae grouped before them were far less uniform and military in appearance, but their sheer bulk and the animal aggression that oozed from their every pore more than made up for any apparent deficit. They wore a motley collection of simple cloths and heavy belts over their leathery flesh and coats of matted hair. None were armed, as embalms on their sparse clothing indicated that they were laborers, but their fingers and bulging arms were tensed with obscene strength.

The largest of the group stepped forward, positioning himself squarely in front of the lead Sangheili, so that the latter was forced to look up to face him.

"Are we in your way, noble Sangheili warriors?" the brute said, his tone obviously mocking even under a heavy accent. "Simple workers like we wouldn't want to delay noble Sangheili warriors."

"Then step aside," the minor replied, his voice completely devoid of humor.

The Jiralhanae pantomimed thought, made a show of looking around, and then offered a fanged grin to the soldier. "We simple workers were just stopping here for a rest. The view is nice, isn't it? We wouldn't want to leave, not yet." Something red dangled from one of the simian's lower teeth, blown towards the Sangheili's pristine helmet with each blast of rancid breath.

The soldier glared unblinking up at the impediment to his progress. "We are defending adepts of High Charity and warriors of the Hierarchs. We require passage. I will not ask again."

His squad tensed, and the grips on their weapons tightened.

The Jiralhanae scanned the group, snorted, and then moved slowly to one side of the narrow walkway. His cohort reluctantly followed suit, and stared silently at the Sangheili as they began to march past. When the rest of the troop had moved through, the lead soldier cast one more razor glance at the hulking simian, muttered something under his breath, and began after the others.

Suddenly, the Jiralhanae reared back, his eyes blazing, and spat on the floor behind the departing warrior's boot. He glanced back for the source of the movement, and upon seeing what the worker had done, halted with a shout. His carbine was off his hip in an instant, and by the time he leveled the long-barreled weapon at the offending brute, the other soldiers had their rifles at the ready, and were backing together in a hasty battle formation. The Jiralhanae, who still held both sides of the raised path, also tensed for combat, looming to their full heights and raising hammer-like fists.

"What is this?" a voice boomed from one end of the walkway.

Rapidly approaching from a nearby antigravity lift station, a wiry Sangheili was pointing an ornate, luminous pike four meters in length at the group. The warrior was of the Honor Guard, as the glowing mosaic of yellow fins and splayed plates adorning his black and deep burgundy armor clearly indicated. The sacred order had been tasked with the defense of the High prophets since the founding of the Covenant, and there were few honors greater for a Sangheili soldier than to be selected to serve amongst its exclusive ranks. The warriors were renowned both for their high status and their exceptional fighting skill; even alone and armed only with his ceremonial staff, this particular guardsman could probably slay half of both feuding parties before any of them even drew his blood.

Arriving at the now motionless assembly, the Honor Guard swiftly identified the leaders of each group and angled his weapon towards them threateningly. "Explain this discord. Now!"

The Sangheili minor immediately offered him a formal nod of supplication. "This work detail was impeding our progress to our duty station, Honor Guard."

"Is this true?" the veteran Sangheili barked at the lead Jiralhanae.

The laborer appeared to size up the new arrival, but quickly decided against any rash action. The reputation of the Honor Guard crossed species, and they were among the few Sangheili who the Jiralhanae often made a show of respecting, even if many Sangheili suspected that they simply coveted the ancient and esteemed order for their own.

"We moved out of the way of these soldiers, like they asked," he grunted in response.

"Then what _is_ the problem, soldier?" the Honor Guard asked again.

The minor officer looked angrily at the taller alien beside him, and began to form a complaint, but stooped himself. It was true, the Jiralhanae had challenged his personal honor, but the insult was a lesser one, especially since it had not come from another Sangheili. The Honor Guard might understand, or he might be more concerned about brawl that had almost unfolded within sight of the Covenant's most holy compounds. And Honor Guards took their duties very, very seriously.

"Nothing," the blue-armored soldier replied at last. "We were just moving on."

"Then get on with it. I won't permit unrest within this city, especially not when it's caused by High Charity's own defenders." The Honor Guard turned to the Jiralhanae. "And you. Move your squad along as well. I'm sure there's work waiting for you."

The laborer shot a hooded glare that the guardsman, but did not protest.

The aggregate dispersed in short order, and traffic gradually resumed along the high concourse. One of the trickle of military and civilians to cross it first, Deau 'Mefasee hurried down the path, oblivious to the spectacular view of High Charity's main city that stretched out below. She was in no particular rush to be anywhere, but the scene she had witnessed on the bridge had made her distinctly uncomfortable, and she felt a sudden impulse to escape the vast, crowded openness of the grand metropolis.

Antagonism between the Sangheili and the Jiralhanae was nothing new, but since the arrival of the marauding human fleet, it seemed that tensions were growing to a fever pitch. There were more and more reports of scuffles and brawls between the two factions every day, and although most of them were isolated to the city proper, incidents like the one she had just witnessed were occurring on High Charity's exclusive upper levels as well, and even within the nearby guardian fleet. Such open discord was almost unheard of.

Before she had met Supreme Commander 'Falanamee, she would have simply guessed that the mounting tensions were the result of the ongoing conflict, which, despite the assurances and legerdemain of the Prophets, was not flowing in the Holy Covenant's favor. Indeed, that was likely part of the cause, but she knew there was more; fundamental and ominous change was afoot within the very capital of the empire. Although none of the orders were explicit, various edicts of the High Prophets had lead to a mounting prominence within the ranks of the Jiralhanae. Where they were once only laborers and silent bodyguards on High Charity, now more and more of its garrison was Jiralhanae as Sangheili-dominated units were transferred to the war front. The hulking beasts were also ascending to supervisory roles in civil works and administration as hundreds transferred onto the station from Asphodel, around which High Charity was positioned while its recently overexerted drives were overhauled.

Even among the ranks of the other species of the Covenant, there was change. The Kig-Yar, always determined to assert their superiority over the majority Unggoy, seemed to be inspired by the subtle upheaval in the higher echelons of society, and were becoming bolder, even to their traditional Sangheili masters. There were reports that the insectoid Yanme'e, ever insular and mysterious, were becoming even more inaccessible, even to the point of insubordination. The mammoth, neigh invulnerable Lekgolo showed signs of mounting paranoia.

At a time when the disparate races of the Covenant required solidarity and consistency most of all, their entire social order was being undone and remade, all by the dictum of the High Prophets, supposed keepers of the status quo. If 'Mefasee had ever needed validation of the Supreme Commander's heretical theories, she had it now.

The raised walkway connected two sectors of Ascendant Level, a network of suspended platforms, dome-mounted structures, and high towers. It was set between the skyscrapers of the city proper on the floor of High Charity's massive internal cavern and the grid of structures positioned high above both, a place of monuments and gardens, the High Council Chambers, and the wide domain of the High Prophets. This middle area housed many of the space station's administrative offices and the sanctums of the lesser Prophets, along with apartments and assembly areas for visiting fleet officers and other dignitaries. Through the influence of 'Falanamee, she had been granted one such apartment, relatively far from the central nexuses of governmental, religious, and military activity, but close enough so that she could easily observe and report on significant developments for him, as he had instructed before his departure.

Stepping off the bridge, she traversed a busy promenade briefly before turning off into a walled side street. She moved swiftly, stopping occasionally to surreptitiously scan the path behind her, almost as by reflex. After a few more intersections, she came to a circular courtyard with a small, well-maintained garden at its center. The space was empty save for a single Huragok; the bulbous creature was completely absorbed in repairing a communications transceiver feed it had uncovered beneath a metallic cobblestone, and ignored 'Mefasee as she hurried by.

Quickly ascending a wide, curving flight of steps to the second floor of the modest, reddish structure to her left, she found her room, keyed its biometric lock, and slipped inside.

A cursory inspection of the small space revealed that it was empty save for its requisite set of amenities and her spare personal effects, all of which had been untouched in her absence. Her status as a minor adjunct to the Supreme Commander, although providing a great deal of access to a wide variety of information, apparently had not made her a target of any obvious scrutiny. Still, the swift and lethal punishment that awaited those who defied the Prophets, even in private, had made her perpetually on edge. Nevertheless, she began to strip off the light-hued attendant's uniform that her service had afforded her, relaxing marginally as she did.

'Mefasee had removed the traditional, largely ceremonial metallic plates that most official Sangheili garments were adorned with and was undoing her simple bodysuit when she noticed that an indicator light on her room's single communication alcove was illuminated. She moved to the holographic tank and activated it. Flowing hieroglyphic text informed her that a private communiqué awaited her review, one that had been transmitted to her terminal by an unspecified source just moments before she had returned. Intrigued, and more than a little wary, she keyed the recall routine.

The miniaturized form of Teno 'Falanamee blossomed before her in a column of light, still dressed in the regalia of his office. His features were distorted by the projection's small size and relatively poor quality, but 'Mefasee could tell from his posture that he was extremely tense, far more so than he had been when they had first met aboard the _August Judgment_.

"I am returning to High Charity," he began bluntly. "The time for action has come. There was no time to encrypt this message, so I cannot be more specific, but I know that you will understand my meaning."

The Sangheili's breathing quickened. She understood what he meant all too well: their private sedition was about to become extremely public. She had never doubted that were actions behind 'Falanamee's words, but she had not expected something so soon.

"There are two objectives you must complete before my arrival in half a cycle's time. First, you must take a copy of the holographic stream encoded within this one and deliver it to city's primary communication's hub in the lower districts. Ask for the Monitor Principal there, and tell him that you bear a message from me. We have fought alongside one another in the past, and he will trust in my orders. Give him the stream and have him broadcast it on as many communications channels as he can, both on armada and internal frequencies."

"Then, use the command codes I provided you to contact your Unggoy on the _August Judgment_. Tell them to stay as close to the captives as they can, to watch them carefully, and everyone who interrogates them. The two are not to come to harm, if there is anything in their power they can do to prevent it."

"I must have this drone launched soon if it to reach you before I do, and I must warn you, there has been no time to enhance its stealth or security capacity. If it is discovered, you will be in great danger. The Hierarchs are watching me and all associated with me very carefully, and they will not hesitate to slain you or use you against me. I know that you will fulfill all that I have asked of you, and I must trust that you will defend yourself until my return, should the need arise."

The recording muted momentarily, and 'Mefasee could not tell if the silence was due to a glitch in the grainy recording, or an actual pause on the Supreme Commander's part. When 'Falanamee's voice returned, it was clear and powerful, as though he stood before her himself.

"May our forefathers fight with you, Warrior, and their honor blaze your trail. Should one of us fall before the end of this, know that you have served the Sangheili well, and that you will always command this heretic's respect."


	45. Chapter Sixty Three

**Part Five: The Rift**

**Chapter Sixty Three**

The Chamber of Reflection sat imbedded in High Charity's outermost armored shell, and served as the very edge of the Sanctum of the Hierarchs, the exclusive domain of the High Prophets and their favored elite. Like the rest of the sacrosanct complex of towers, high passageways, and bottomless vaults, the room was shaped and molded to the height of Covenant aesthetic sensibility. Its floor was tiled with curving panes of a substance that glowed with a ghostly emerald light, and finely-hewn wall struts arched along the walls and ceiling towards the center of the chamber, where they held up a projection tube that cast a pillar golden light to a low refraction dais set into the floor. The narrow supports framed a massive viewport that covered nearly a full half of the domed wall, beyond which Asphodel's curvature was back-lit by its distant primary, oceans glinting in the dusk light.

The beautiful view was completely lost on the handful of individuals gathered there. The High Prophets of Regret, Mercy, and Truth sat motionless on their hovering thrones, clustered around the centrally pillar of illumination while the towering, white-haired Jiralhanae Tartarus stood to the side in watchful waiting.

After a long moment of silence, Truth leaned back against the padded reverse of his conveyance, and steepled his bony fingers.

"Play it again," he said quietly.

"Again?" Mercy balked. "Have these heretical words not defiled this holy place enough?"

Truth did not turn to face the older Prophet, keeping his bulbous eyes locked on the beam of light.

"Play. It. Again."

Mercy's thin, dry lips tightened at Truth's tone, but he passed a hand over one of the subtle holographic nodules that studded the armrests of his throne. In response, the illumination took on a bluish hue, and the almost life-sized form of a Sangheili in the regalia of a mighty and honored warrior resolved within the projector's beam.

"Sangheili of the Holy Covenant, hear me!" the soldier began, his arms stretched wide and posture open and energetic.

"Brothers! I am Teno 'Falanamee, Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice and ship master of the _Sacrosanc__t_. I may not be known to all of you, but there are some among you who know of me and of my undying service to the Covenant. Look to them, and they will tell you that I am a warrior of honor and virtue. I have lead warriors into battle in space and on land, and fought in the very heart of each fray. I have slain uncounted hordes of foes and heretics with my own hands, and carried wounded comrades upon my back from the deadliest of peril. I have crushed all who would deny our great purpose, and burned their worlds to teach them the price of their defiance."

"Through all of this, I have been loyal to the Prophets and believed with all my being that I would find salvation with the gods in the Great Journey when our sacred quest was done. That is the very basis of this Holy Covenant, and the dream for which every Sangheili warrior has fought and died since the First Age of Reconciliation. Without it, our great union is nothing, an empty shell. Without loyalty and honesty between the Prophets, shepherds of salvations, and the Sangheili, guardians of our great concord, our divine empire is a lie."

"No Sangheili would ever break this compact, and our allegiance has never wavered. We have lived and we have died by the word of the Prophets for millennia, and all we have asked in return is that the Prophets give us respect and never cease their quest for the salvation of all."

"We have not broken our great Covenant. But the Prophets have."

'Falanamee paused for a moment, as if to let the meaning of his words resonate through the still air. He spoke openly of the greatest heresy imaginable. The meaning was one that the most wrathful of heretics barely dared to whisper, and yet here a Supreme Commander of the Covenant Holy Armada stood, declaring it proudly on an open transmission. Had they not heard it before, one of the High Prophets surely would have gagged.

"I know what I must say is almost inconceivable, but believe in the honor of this warrior, I would not dare even think it did I not know its truth with all my heart. The Prophets have betrayed us. They have betrayed the Sangheili, and they have betrayed their own Covenant. Their promises of redemption have come to naught; rather than remain loyal to the Writ of Union, they have conspired in secret with their Jiralhanae minions to unseat us from our rightful place in this empire. They would replace us with mindless brutes who will serve them without question as the Prophets abuse the trust of the peoples of the Covenant for the sake of their own personal power. They would see the Sangheili enslaved, or wiped from the galaxy before we could even raise our arms in defiance!"

"Think, my brothers! Who has spilt blood the most in the war against the humans and their new weapons of conquest? Not the Jiralhanae. No, they have remained in safety around their worlds as our holy realm is consumed, sneering mongrels at the beckon call of the Prophets. They laugh as noble Sangheili warriors charge into battle by the millions, only to be slaughtered as the Hierarchs weaken our armies from within."

"I do not know why the Prophets have betrayed us. Perhaps they have been consumed by greed and lust for power. Perhaps they have angered the gods, and fear the terrible retribution their impiety has provoked. Perhaps everything they have ever told the other peoples of this galaxy has been a lie, and now they seek to stave off discovery and just recompense. We will discover the root of their treachery in time, but for now, we must act."

"To arms, my Sangheili brethren! The Covenant is broken, but we will not be destroyed with it. We must strike now, before the Prophets can further enact their vile plans! We must crush them and their minions before the corruption of betrayal allows this galaxy to be consumed by enemies from without and within! There is no more time for words! Go now, and save our people from the dark! May our forefathers fight with us!"

The image of the Sangheili floated silently in the projection beam for a moment, piercing each of the viewers with his unblinking stare. When the warrior finally dissolved back into a colorful snow of light, Mercy and Regret traded apprehensive looks and then turned their attention back to the impassive Truth, reluctant to interrupt his contemplation of the message again.

"How far has this transmission spread, Tartarus?" the High Prophet questioned at length, his tone even.

"It was broadcast on an open channel to every transceiver within communications range, noble Hierarch," the Jiralhanae said, stepping forward. "Before your soldiers tracked down the transmitting comm hub and shut it down, the traitor's message was repeated several times, and publically displayed at numerous locations within the lower and upper districts, as well as in several cities on Asphodel's surface. There are also reports of sightings on at least twenty ships throughout the fleet."

"And still, this heretic's word spreads," Regret said angrily. "Disabling the communications hub has not halted 'Falanamee's proclamation from being passed by whispers and shouts through the streets. Already, masses of Sangheili have formed at exchange hubs and oration chambers, demanding an answer from us. The faithful and doubting have taken up arms against one another, and their conflict threatens to explode into every corridor and concourse. The Sangheili of the High Council have convened without our summons and even now sit in the council chamber, demanding that we come forward and answer 'Falanamee's charges."

"They would summon us?" Mercy scoffed. "They have not the right!"

"Whether or not they have the right no longer matters, Brother," Truth said, laying his palms flat upon the armrests of his throne. "The rule of law cannot withstand Sangheili passion when it is enflamed."

The Hierarch's eyes drifted. "I had not anticipated that this fleet master would command the respect and admiration of his kind that he does; they would not revolt so easily on the behest of many other warriors. Perhaps I was wrong not to punish him for his failure at Reach."

"Lamentation and reflection can come later, Brother," Regret said. "But what must be done now? Surely, there must be a way to diffuse this situation. To mitigate the potency of the Supreme Commander's words, or discredit them?"

Truth seemed to consider briefly, but his expressionless face quickly hardened with resolve. "No, the damage that 'Falanamee has inflicted is too great. Even if we quell the storm today, the Sangheili will never truly trust us again. After all, what he says is the truth, although I do not know how he has discerned it. No, we must accelerate our plans. We must act now to cripple the power of the Elite."

Regret's head jerked back on its long neck in surprise. "Now? The Sangheili still control much of the armada, even the squadrons stationed here. They still fill the ranks of the Honor Guard. There are half a dozen armed Sangheili standing outside this very door!"

"They can be dealt with swiftly." Truth turned to Tartarus. "Are you soldiers prepared?"

"Yes, Hierarch," the chieftain replied. "I have cohort of Jiralhanae trailing every member of the Guard."

"Good. It is unlikely that many will relinquish their posts now, even if your soldiers bear the force of my edict. Kill them, but only those who can be eliminated quickly and quietly."

Tartarus' eyes lit up with feral glee. "At once, my lord."

"And what of the Council?" Regret demanded. "If they learn that what 'Falanamee has claimed is true, they could rally an open rebellion with ease. Can Tartarus' forces slaughter every single Sangheili in this system at once?"

"Their warriors are nothing next to ours," Tartarus growled. "Sangheili blood would flow through the streets."

"Open civil war?" Mercy choked. "Within High Charity itself? Unthinkable!"

"Mercy is correct," Truth said, raising his hands to placate the others. "Warfare should be delayed as long as possible. Our loyal forces require more time to be fully prepared, and I will not allow the Sangheili to damage this holy place with their death throes. No, the semblance of peace should be maintained as long as it can be. The riots can be quelled without too much further bloodshed, and our hold on the fleet is in little danger, at least at the moment. Besides, not all Sangheili will be quick to pledge their lives to the Supreme Commander; we still have some allies among them."

"The Council still demands an audience," Regret pressed.

"And we will give them one. Tartarus, allow the Honor Guard near the Council Chambers to live, but mass as many of your troops as you deem necessary nearby, hidden. Have others block off the main entryways and exeunt to the level; allow no one in or out. If any councilor asks why, tell them that it is for their own security. We would not want any of them injured by a riotous mob."

"When you have deployed your forces there, I want you to take a detachment and venture into the lower districts. Interrogate the director of the communications hub from which 'Falanamee had his message broadcast, and track down the agent he used to initiate this heresy. I suspect you already know who it may be."

Tartarus nodded once and straightened up, hefting his mighty war hammer.

"Bring her to me at the Council Chambers," Truth continued. "Alive."

A blast of steamy breath escaped Tartarus' nostrils, but he said nothing.

"Now go."

"And what of us?" Regret asked as the Jiralhanae loped hurriedly towards the door.

"You, Brother, will contact the ship master of the _August Judgment_. He will not place his faith in 'Falanamee easily, and I believe he can still be trusted. He holds aboard his ship two prisoners, humans captured after the battle at Reach. Have him personally escort them to High Charity and brought to the Council chambers. They must arrive intact."

"Mercy, gather the senior Prophet councilors within Far Tower Haven. They will be safe there. When both of your tasks are complete, travel to the Council Chambers and stall the Sangheili there. I will join you in good time."

"Only the senior councilors?" Mercy questioned.

"Yes. We must not have it appear as though we fear Sangheili hostility. Do not worry; the rest will not be in any significant danger. If nowhere else on this station, we still control the Council Chambers."

"And what will you do until you join us there?" Regret asked, obviously unhappy with the other's plan, but all too clear upon where the true power within the Covenant lay.

"I expect that the Supreme Commander will not allow his heresy to spread untended for long," Truth replied, turning back towards the central projector. "I do not wish him to arrive unwelcomed."

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Cakap was leaning on a curved bulkhead deep within the _August Judgment_, trying to look inconspicuous to the stream of crewers and officers walking by, when Migaw found him.

"Cakap? Cakap!" the second Unggoy called excitedly as he jogged towards his fellow as fast as his stubby legs would carry him.

Cakap jerked to attention when he heard his name being called, but relaxed when he saw Migaw skid to a halt next to him.

"Where have you been?"

Migaw took a deep drag on his breath mask to calm his pumping heart. When he had regained his breath, the crewer straightened up, but rather than reply, he cocked his head quizzically, peering at the corridor in which they were standing.

"Why are you out here?"

Cakap closed his eyes in exasperation. Concentration was not among his comrade's boundless complement of skills, like eating, or tripping over his own feet.

"There was a fight on the hangar deck," he replied. "Apparently, one of the big shot Sangheili said something nasty about the Prophets, and now everyone on the ship is arguing about whether or not he was right, or something like that. I didn't stick around long enough to find out was really going on. Some of the guards were reaching for their rifles, and I don't feel like getting zapped if somebody does something stupid. I've had enough of doctors for quite awhile."

Migaw nodded in agreement. The pair had been ordered to the medical decks for examination after they escaped their commandeered recovery ship. Covenant physicians were undeniably efficient, but notoriously unconcerned for the comfort of their patients.

When it became evident that Migaw wasn't going to volunteer the source of his previous excitement unprompted, Cakap blew out a sigh.

"So, why were you late for our duty shift?"

Migaw's tiny eyes widened. "Oh! Right. Do you remember those humans who took our old ship? The ones that they captured?"

"Yes."

"And 'Mefasee? You know, our last commander?"

"Of course I remember her! We were reassigned less than a cycle set ago! What does she have to do with anything?"

"Well, I was still in the warren – I guess I overslept – and somebody told me that a Sangheili wanted to see me on the transceiver line. It was her. She told me to take you and find the humans. She wants us to watch them and make sure that no one does anything to them. That was it; she cut the transmission, and I came to find you."

"Protect the humans?" Cakap balked. "Why would she want to us to do that?"

"Who knows?" Migaw shrugged. "She said it was important, though. She said it was the Supreme Commander's orders. You know, that one who transferred her to the Prophet's space station."

Cakap noted the grimace on Migaw's face when he mentioned the other Sangheili, even behind his breath mask. He almost instantly recalled the source of his comrade's discomfort; the Supreme Commander, Teno 'Falanamee, the one with the scarred face, had been with the humans who had captured their salvage transport, and had personally knocked both himself and Migaw out cold in the process.

His mind flew back to the only other time he had met the Sangheili, briefly before their reassignment and 'Mefasee's departure. He had taken the three of them into an empty storage chamber and talked with their old commander. Migaw and Cakap had been largely excluded from the conversation, aside from both being made to promise never to reveal the identity of their attacker, but the latter still remembered what the two had discussed. There had been a lot to do with the Prophets, and the Jiralhanae, too. It was dangerous talk, about betrayal and war and the lies that the Hierarchs were telling everyone. Heresy.

Unlike many of his kind, Cakap was not very religious. He paid respect to the Prophets, of course, and retained a peripheral understanding that the gods existed somewhere beyond the stars, but he was not particularly enthused about the prospect of throwing his life in the name of one or the other. The concept of the "Great Journey" had never made much sense to him, either. What's the good of paradise if you're dead? Instead, Cakap proudly thought of himself as something of a pragmatist.

Nevertheless, he understood the implications of heresy, especially of the scale that 'Falanamee described. If the Prophets lied, then none of their sermons or their edicts could be trusted. If that happened, there would be no one to lead the Sangheili or the Jiralhanae, or any of the species under them. And if that happened…

Cakap suddenly realized why tensions on the hangar deck had been so high. The Supreme Commander must have openly announced his suspicions. The Unggoy looked fervently up and down the corridor. It was quiet and largely empty except for them, but Cakap was beginning to think it wouldn't stay that way for long. War, a new war, was coming, and people like him had a way of being the first to die in them. He would need to pick a side before one was chosen for him, and the idea of being on the wrong side of 'Falanamee's fist again wasn't that appealing.

"Cakap?" Migaw prodded.

The Unggoy sighed. "What level are the main prison blocks on?"

"You mean that you actually want to do what she asked?" Migaw sounded surprised a more than a little distressed. "I didn't think that you would actually…"

"I'll explain on the way," Cakap said, cutting his companion off and hurrying towards the nearest lift nexus. Migaw watched him walk away for a few moments, glanced down the hallway in the opposite direction, and then opened his mouth to mount some protest. When it became apparent that Cakap wasn't going to stop, however, he let out a small moan instead and waddled after the other, his atmosphere tank bobbing back and forth on his back furiously.

Despite the carrier's impressive size, it didn't take the pair very long to locate the prison block, a corridor lined one either side with large, no-descript hatches, located a short distance from the ship's command center. Security was tight, and the guards patrolling the hallways were unusually tense, but Cakap and Migaw managed to bypass them without too much effort; one of the very few advantages of being on the very bottom of the Covenant social pyramid was the ability to simply blend into the background when one wasn't doing something blatantly suspicious. Nevertheless, Cakap took care not to enter the corridor until a patrolling trio of Kig-Yar moved away down an adjoining passage.

It was obvious which chamber housed the humans; only one of the hatches was flanked by a pair of armed Sangheili Minors. Neither Unggoy had had much luck figuring out how exactly they were going to get to the human's cells and watch them unnoticed when they actually found them, but it quickly became apparent that that would not be a problem. The egress was open, and it appeared as though a fairly large group of officers and soldiers was exiting the confinement chamber.

"Isn't that the Ship Master?" Migaw asked nervously, pointing at the gold-armored Sangheili at the head of the group.

Cakap threw out an arm and pushed his companion and himself as far back against the corridor bulkhead as their methane tanks would permit. "What is he doing here?"

Galo 'Nefaaleme, commanding officer of the _August Judgment_, paused in the middle of the corridor and turned back to watch as a contingent of Unggoy and Sangheili filed out after him. Cowering between two purple-hued special operations soldiers, part of the Ship Master's personal guard, a pair of light-skinned humans limped along at the center of the group, their fabric garments badly tattered and their soft hides bruised and cut. Stooping to clear the opening, two Lekgolo brought up the rear, mutely covering the hallway with the massive fuel rod cannons embedded in their right arms.

With the ship master at its head, the group formed up and marched purposefully towards the exit of the block. None of them paid a second thought to the pair of crewers pressed up to one side of the corridor; even the fellow Unggoy in the procession ignored them, their attentions completely focused on their primate charges and the obviously agitated 'Nefaaleme.

"Is the path to the port shuttlebay clear?" the ship master demanded of a silver-armored Sangheili at his side as he brushed past.

"It is, Excellency," the officer replied. "There are still reports of disturbances across the primary decks, but they are swiftly being quelled. The Guard is executing your order to slay any crewmember found rousing unrest efficiently."

"Good," his superior said as his detail reached the main egress. "I won't have my ship fall to rebellion while I'm on the holy city. Not because of him."

When the others had passed from sight, Cakap glanced doubtfully at his companion, to which Migaw replied with a jerky, non-committal shrug. Cakap sighed deeply, wondering as he often did how the two could have been spawned from the same genetic pool and then half-heartedly set off for the exit.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The combined forces of Asphodel's defensive fleet and High Charity's spaceborne guardians hung nervously in space, their communications arrays alive with hurried proclamations, outraged inquiries, and calls for order, all of them enmeshed with the rebellious declaration that still found its way further into the armada. Clustered about the world and its massive artificial satellite, Sangheili and Jiralhanae ship masters attempted to keep their agitated crews in line, doling out swift and brutal punishments to any who defied their millennia-old doctrines of discipline. The assemblage of warships in the system, one hundred and seventy capital ships and innumerable fighter and support craft, was relatively modest for an empire that stretched across the galaxy, its forces spread thin combating the new human aggression, but the firepower they bore was still sufficient to lay waste to an entire star system in hours. If a single rash or zealous commander decided to break the tentative quiet of space, every living thing within billion kilometers could be obliterated.

But the peace held, as uneasy as it was. The crews and commanders of the defensive fleet had been taught and trained from birth to adhere to the ancient chains of command and social order that gave the Covenant its foundation, and the conventions proved difficult to break. Doubt and anger simmered in a billion minds, but the bonds of tradition held them at bay.

The call to arms from the Prophet of Truth himself helped preserve this tenuous obedience. He declared that the Supreme Commander, the one who had preached such dire heresy, was hurtling towards their sacred capital, and that he was borne at the head of a war fleet. It was a portent of his true intent, Truth said; he would conquer High Charity and claim the Covenant for his own. 'Falanamee's claims of treason on the part of the Prophets were a mere pretense for his wanton aggression, and his words were empty and baseless. Some of the fleet masters doubted these accusations, but their instinct took over where their minds were unsure, and a mighty vanguard of warships formed to block the most likely invasion routes into Asphodel's orbit.

The defense was a layered one. A core of carriers and kilometer-long frigates formed a shell around High Charity's bulbous mass, while heavier cruisers and capital ships moved into a trio of loose bands some twenty thousand kilometers out. Arcing perimeters that emanated from the capital station, the three were positioned at angles "above", parallel to, and "below" its orbital plane, with the planet's mass used as the final segment of the grid. Thousands of Seraph fightercraft poured from their base vessels and filled the empty space between with sweeping patrol formations and nimble maneuvers.

It was a standard defensive arrangement, developed by the first Covenant admirals and drilled into the memory of each and every fleet officer. Nevertheless, the posture came together more slowly than it should have, and it was not without its kinks and gaps; many navigators and commanders were still distracted by the implications of the rogue Supreme Commander's message, and even if they had not been, there was still the fact that nearly a third of the ships in the combined fleet were helmed by Jiralhanae. They were new appointments, elevated by the Prophets themselves "to assist in the elimination of the new human threat", and many Sangheili were finding it difficult to interact with the simians as full equals.

Just as the Hierarch had predicted, even as the defenders finalized their transient ramparts, slipspace monitoring platforms and picket ships on the fringe of the star system detected a large number of vessels vectoring towards Asphodel at superluminal velocity. Signal probes hurtled in-system with the news just ahead of the impending fleet, and defenders primed their plasma banks and shield capacitors, waiting tensely for the first trans-dimensional disturbances to flare onto their tactical displays. High Charity's powerful slipspace sensing arrays watched the hazy energy signals hurtle past the system's outer planets, bypassing small colonies and outposts, its bearing undeniable. Finally, the fleet reached the open space between Asphodel's large moon and the waiting vanguard…

For a split second, the void remained still.

Then, in a torrent of luminous, spherical pulses, the Fleet of Particular Justice spilled from the realm of the abstract into the real, sixty-five massive, polished hulls gleaming in the fast-fading light of their own emergence. They had not taken up position in opposition to one of the perimeter bands, or indeed even between them, as most of the waiting ship masters had anticipate. The Supreme Commander had brought his ships within nine thousand miles of the holy city, directly between High Charity's two lines of defense.

A thousand pairs of eyes looked upon their holographic displays with surprise. Under different circumstances and with different warships, the move might have been the obvious one, bypassing the main line of defense and splitting it from the prize it was intended to protect. But the perimeter bands were still close to High Charity, almost within firing range, and the presence of three separate ship lines ensured that only a massively overwhelming number of enemy vessels could completely rob the station of its outer defenders. If anything, the 'Falanamee's fleet was in the worst position it could possibly be in; it was close to High Charity, true, but it could be enveloped from every side and firing vector within moments.

The apparent blunder gave some ships pause, but more experienced commanders amongst the combined fleet quickly adapted to the unexpected maneuver, and the trio of ship walls began to collapse in on the invading force. Wings of Seraph fighters skirted the perimeter of the newly-arrived battle group, their pilots observing carefully as the carriers within the Supreme Commander's formation disgorged their own interceptor craft. As the Prophet's soldiers closed in, the comparative disparity in firepower became quite obvious; little more than half its strength before the slaughter at Reach, the fleet was out-massed thrice by the defending armada. Despite its state of restoration, High Charity further tilted the odds from the rebellious force; even with its drives and shield grid down, its surface boasted thousands of independent plasma projectors, each of which was now aimed squarely at the new arrivals.

Elements of the Fleets of Far Clarity and Joyous Recompense were the first to reach Particular Justice, and swarmed the elliptical formation with dozens of frigates and light cruisers, which positioned themselves at every angle around the fleet, cutting off their every route of movement or escape. Behind, onboard their battlecruisers and hook-headed assault carriers, fleet masters and high zealots observed 'Falanamee's separatists carefully as their navigators positioned the command ships within firing range of the surrounded battle fleet. Many could have ordered their batteries to open fire immediately, but they hesitated. Some were reluctant to be the first to engage one of the Supreme Commander's esteem and martial prowess. Others simply waited for him to make the first move.

It came swiftly, in the form of a wide-band broadcast from 'Falanamee's graceful flagship that found its way onto every operational transceiver and holographic feed from Asphodel's surface to the most distant vanguard warship. Ship masters watched as a familiar Sangheili face resolved before them; pilots listened as they matched maneuvers with their opposing counterparts. Truth observed from his far throne.

"I am Teno 'Falanamee, as you all must now surely know," the Supreme Commander began. "Though I have come at the head of a battle fleet, crewed by warriors who will no longer stand the abuse and treachery that the Hierarchs have laid upon this galaxy, I am not here as a conqueror. I do not wish to fight you, my noble brothers, but I will if there is no other way to reach the High Prophets and end their corruption. I will not struggle for my convictions from afar, as they do. I, and all those who stand with me, will gladly give up our lives and our honor for the sake of the Sangheili and all those who still value the strength and unity that the Covenant once gave its people. We will bear your judgment, and face the wrath that the Prophet's betrayal has brought upon us all."

The transmission ended abruptly. All across the fleet, doubt and anger kindled anew, but the warships of High Charity were already in position. Their captains knew that if any of the Supreme Commander's vessels attempted to breach the cordon, they would have to engage them, regardless of what they felt in their hearts. They were duty bound, if not to the Hierarchs, then to their crews.

Within the artificial planetoid's armored bulk, Truth almost smiled. 'Falanamee's gambit had failed, and his heresy would soon be extinguished. Perhaps he had overestimated the tenacity of the Sangheili, after all.

A small holographic alert manifested itself in the air before him, subsidiary to the expansive representation of the space around High Charity, but defined by blaze of sudden luminosity. The Prophet banished the message with a hurried and distracted gesture, completely focused on his impending victory. The warning image did not return, but a few moments later, a Jiralhanae voice burst onto his ears from unseen speakers. Truth sneered in anger, and prepared to berate the officer for so insolently interrupting his reverie, but he stopped himself, only just catching the creature's frantic tone. After listening to a few barked words, he pulled up the alert again and scanned it carefully.

Only then did he realize that the Supreme Commander's promise of impending wrath was not mere bravado and metaphor. Before the High prophet, backed by the distant form of one of the system's lifeless gas giants, the images of four, wedge-shaped warships shown in stark white and gray, their narrow prows aimed straight at the Holy Covenant's heart.


	46. Chapter Sixty Four

**Chapter Sixty Four**

In the dark gap between two massive buildings, blocky and functional like most in the lowest of High Charity's districts, Deau 'Mefasee scrabbled for support against one slick, tarnished wall. Emerging from an adjoining alleyway, she stumbled a few steps and then caught hold of a protruding column of machinery-housing. The Sangheili leaned upon the tube-like structure for a moment, sucking deep, haggard breaths through her heaving mandibles, and then used it to pull herself back onto her feet. She glanced over her shoulder at the shadowed alley behind her, and finding it empty, allowed herself to take another few, slightly calmer drags of air. Noting that the modest, drab collection of metal plates she sported on her skin-tight bodysuit was sliding out of place, she took a few more moments to readjust an ill-fitting poltroon and chest plate. Silently cursing her inability to find a better-proportioned disguise, 'Mefasee straightened up as best as she could and began to walk towards the "daylight" that illuminated the space beyond the narrow alley.

Taking another calming breath, she stepped out onto a large open concourse. A primary avenue that bisected the entire district, the space stretched off beyond view to left and right, a thirty-meter gap between the gigantic edifices of factory buildings, housing warrens, and bureaucratic offices, many of them dozens of stories high. The roadway of seamlessly-interlocking metal plates on which she stood was but the lowest level of the thoroughfare. Above her, partially blocking the artificial illumination that poured down from great strips and circles of white radiance that stretched across the massive dome a hundred kilometers overheard, raised roadways and suspended platforms connected the towering structures on either side. Above this network of crisscrossing walkways, a steady flow of air traffic, automated cargo haulers, smaller transport craft, and even the occasional armed patrol craft maneuvered through the artificial ravine.

'Mefasee took momentary solace in the sheer enormity of her surroundings. There were few places better to hide in the strictly-regimented Covenant than the lowest level of a civilian population center, where the sheer crush of population and encroaching apparatus made each minute living being seem like just another part of the great, holy machine. Desperate to fully exploit her surroundings, the Sangheili again straightened her dull metallic raiment, that of a simple manufacturing laborer, and hurried towards the largest assemblage of sapients in view.

The crowd, nearly one hundred Sangheili, Unggoy, and Kig-Yar, most of them dressed in uniforms as dull and utilitarian as 'Mefasee's, was thronged around a circular dais that was raised two meters above street level. The bust of a nameless Prophet was affixed to its flat top, one of thousands of such icons and statues that adorned every street and level of the sacred city. The mass of workers was not paying homage to the carved face, however. Instead, their eyes were fixed upon a Sangheili who had climbed onto the platform and was addressing those assembled below in a booming, irate voice.

On the very edge of the crowd, 'Mefasee could not clearly hear what he was saying over its collective murmuring and the occasional shout from a spectator closer to the center, but she still had a fairly good idea of what was being said nonetheless. She made her way along the perimeter of the slowly-growing throng, periodically glancing up and down the concourse for the best avenues of escape, should they be needed. Pushing through a small knot of avian Kig-Yar, she heard one of them whisper something unintelligible to a fellow, and looked back to see a skeletal, yellow-skinned alien loping out of the crowd, back in the direction from which she had come. She tracked the creature's movement until her eyes fell upon the alley which she had just exited. As she watched, a bulky mass of sinew and matted hair stomped into view from the darkness, a vicious bayoneted grenade launcher clutched in its grayish hands.

A chill of fear pulsed down the Sangheili's spine, and she immediately turned away from the open street. Her pursuers had managed to trace her, despite her best efforts to fade into the sprawling metropolis after she left the communications hub. She had known that pursuit was all but ensured due to the magnitude of the heresy she had just facilitated, the Supreme Commander had warned her of as much, but still she had hoped…

Any hopes of escape on foot 'Mefasee might have had were dispelled as she heard the familiar buzz of a dropship settle in over her head. She could tell that the vessel was similar in make to the recovery ship she had once commanded, and she knew its alternative specifications all too well. 'Mefasee pushed deeper into the crowd, trying not to imagine the insect-like craft settling in the air above a hundred meters away, its quartet of bottom-slung plasma cannons scanning the throng as Jiralhanae soldiers disgorged from its hold, their falls softened by the dropship's shimmering gravity lift. Her only chance now was to blend in, just another common laborer among millions. Perhaps her pursuers didn't know her face, or have her biometrics on file.

The laborers and overseers she pushed passed were thoroughly enthralled by the speaker and resisted little as she moved past them, and soon 'Mefasee found herself at the front of the crowd, only a few meters from the bellowing Sangheili. He was a mid-level bureaucrat, by the look of his civilian dress, and the scarred stub that was his left arm explained why.

"And what of the High Council?" the speaker shouted, holding out his intact hand ominously. "They were summoned to their chambers by the Hierarchs before 'Falanamee even arrived in this system. Why has there been no word from them since? Why are none allowed near the Council tier, or the Common Towers? Why do the Prophets keep our greatest leaders locked away as battle looms within view of this holy city? Is it because they fear what the Councilors will do if they are allowed to face 'Falanamee openly? Do they fear that they might find some truth in his words?"

Murmurs of approval rippled through those below, mostly from the Sangheili, but a few Unggoy leant their chirpy voices to the chorus as well. The Kig-Yar were silent and uneasy.

"I am no heretic," the Sangheili continued. "It is not heresy to demand the truth, no matter what some may say! Look at me! Look at my arm! I lost this arm defending our Holy Covenant from real heretics, mad traitors and worshippers of false gods. I lost the honor and glory of battle; I have spent countless cycles serving here, far from the fires of war, and for what? To preserve and sustain my people and my kin, and all those who are loyal to us. I am no heretic. If Teno 'Falanamee labors as I do, as he says he does, then he is no heretic, either."

As the mass of spectators roared with agreement, 'Mefasee chanced a look over her shoulder. Plainly visible in the midst of a pack of skittish Unggoy, four Jiralhanae soldiers were scanning the assembly with keen, cruel eyes. The fugitive could not help but stare a moment at their leader in shock and dread. A massive, white-haired brute, easily twice the size of any Sangheili within view, with a metallic war hammer clutched in his right fist. She recognized his savage face and hulking frame in an instant, though she had seen him before only from a distance, and as his crimson stare met hers, she knew that the chieftain had done the same.

At random, she plunged back into the crowd, away from her pursuers. Over the clamor of the firebrand and his throng, she heard a loud bark and the thud of heavy footfalls. 'Mefasee threw herself around an unusually heavy-set Sangheili and searched the street again desperately for a route of escape. She caught sight of the dropship still hovering off to her right, but the other side of the avenue was still empty save for a few curious pedestrians. Abandoning all pretense of evasion, she made for the rear of the crowd as fast as the press of bodies would permit. Her ill-fitting uniform jangled and slipped, but she ignored it. Just another handful of observers, and she would be in the open. The Sangheili prayed that the Jiralhanae would not dare to discharge their weapons in the thick of a riled mob.

The blow fell upon her broad back like the concussion of an artillery blast, and she felt herself sprawl irresistibly onto the smooth paving plates. Before she even brace for another blow, 'Mefasee felt club-like hands latch onto her shoulders and yank upwards, pulling her back off the street. She began to struggle, but when she looked up, she saw the albino Jiralhanae peering down at her, holding one of the gently-pulsing gravity projectors imbedded into the head of his weapon centimeters from her face. He jabbed the weapon at her, and she fell still.

Tartarus rumbled at the pair of Jiralhanae holding her, and they began to tug her out of the crowd, back towards the waiting dropship. They had not moved more than a few meters, however, before the soldiers stopped, responding to the sound of shouting from behind. 'Mefasee twisted against the iron grasps of her captors and looked back over her shoulder. Most of the crowd had moved back when the Jiralhanae had fallen upon their prey, but a few Sangheili had remained. 'Mefasee recognized one of them as the worker who had been rallying the mass.

"What do you think you're doing with her?" the veteran demanded, approaching Tartarus, who had also stopped.

"She is wanted for offenses committed against the Covenant, Sangheili," the hulking chieftain growled. "It would not be wise to interfere. Your loyalties are already in question." He jerked his head towards the now-vacant pedestal.

"Do not question my loyalties, Jiralhanae," the other spat back, disregarding the size difference between them as he stalked close. "It is not your place. The guardians and enforcers of this city are still of my people. It is their duty to pursue and arrest. Let them take me, if they will, but I shall not allow you and your brutes to lay a hand on me, or that female. Release her."

Tartarus glowered at him. "I have been directed by the Hierarchs themselves to seize her. Perhaps they no longer have faith in the Sangheili and your enforcers. What your people call loyalty may no longer satisfies them." The white-haired soldier glanced at the dropship, and 'Mefasee followed his gaze to see a quartet of armed Jiralhanae approaching. She also noticed that the crowd had begun to grow again, and that it was beginning to encircle her captors.

Tartarus noticed it, too. "Now, call off your mob and let me pass."

"They are not my mob, Jiralhanae," the one-armed warrior said dangerously. "I cannot control them, or stop them from doing what they feel they must. I warn you again, let the female go."

Tartarus looked about him, scanning the ranks of Sangheili that were forming all around. His beady eyes met those of one of the soldiers holding 'Mefasee for a moment, and the other grunted meaningfully. The chieftain turned back to the tense worker.

"Warn me? Of this rabble?"

He snorted a derisive laugh, and then brought his weapon to bear on the Sangheili firebrand in a rapid, fluid motion. The smaller figure stared at the broad head of the gravity hammer for a full half second before Tartarus squeezed a control stud and a halo of roiling bluish distortion burst from it. The pulse caught the Sangheili full in the face and chest, and he careened back into a group of other protestors, sending several of them to the street with the force of his fall. At the same moment, 'Mefasee's keepers lurched forward, bowling through the thin line of civilians that had formed in their path.

She attempted to kick one of the Jiralhanae off of her, but he ignored the blows, never breaking pace for the hovering dropship. As soon as they were free of the crowd, the four other Jiralhanae rushed past them in the opposite direction, evidently moving to assist their leader. 'Mefasee could hear shouts of surprise and anger erupting from the assembled Sangheili, and then the low _whump_ of the gravity hammer's repulsor as it sent another member of the throng spinning away. She struggled to look back, but the Jiralhanae held her fast, and in a few moments, they had arrived under the waiting strike ship.

As she was shoved into the column of colorfully-pulsing energy that emanated from the underside of the craft to the street below and tugged irresistibly upwards, she heard the sudden report of a Jiralhanae firearm. Her gut clenched, and she tried not to envision a trickle of purple Sangheili blood flowing down the polished concourse. Then a new pair of unforgiving hands received her, and Teno 'Falanamee and his grand designs seemed as far away as they had ever been.

* * *

Almost as one, the war fleets assembled before High Charity detected the approach of the four blade-ships. Even as coordinators stationed on the holy city began to transmit urgent warnings to the defensive armada, hundreds of ship masters watched on holographic displays as the angular alien vessels moved further and further into the system, ignoring the outlying outposts and scattered picket ships that they passed. Their progress was not particularly swift, but it did not need to be. Every warrior of the Holy Covenant knew what the demon-craft were capable of.

For a few moments, the opposed fleets of Teno 'Falanamee and the Hierarchs were still, their relative positions to one another locked as though nothing had interrupted their lethal contest of wills. Then, gradually at first, and then in a great flurry of divergent movement, the encircling flotilla began to fragment, all order lost. A trio of destroyers from the Fleet of Joyous Recompense broke off from the main group and forged into interplanetary space towards the new invaders, their commanders seized either by a fit of blind valor or the irresistible pull of vengeance for the fallen. A few others, mainly Jiralhanae-controlled ships, shot off in the opposite direction, seeking what little shelter there was to be had behind High Charity's armored bulk.

The majority remained around 'Falanamee's fleet, but even they started to deviate from their firing positions as ship masters debated with zealots and fleet masters with admirals. High Charity, where Truth still sat transfixed upon his throne, was momentarily silent, and without its overriding authority questions of command and priority spread like a firestorm. There was little doubt that the not-so distant quartet of human vessels posed a vastly greater threat than the entirety of the Supreme Commander's force, but most also agreed that it was out of the question to simply let him continue on to the capital. There were simply not enough warships at hand to meet both threats.

Despite all of this confusion, the chain of command quickly began to reassert itself, and the High Admiral placed in opposition to the Supreme Commander, a wizened and battle-harden veteran nearly half again 'Falanamee's age, was in the process of reigning in the commanders of the combined fleet when flare of boiling plasma lit the void. All eyes and all sensors slashed to the edge of the encompassing shell nearest to High Charity. Two volleys of roiling plasma torpedoes were passing each other in the space between the two forces. In that moment, no one could be certain who had fired first; all simply watched, frozen once more, as the deadly lines of light cut through the blackness, and then erupted onto the shimmering shields of two opposing cruisers.

With that, the battle began.

The surrounded vessels surged forward as one, unleashing a withering hail of plasma missiles and energy pulses at any and all ships in their path. The defenders responded in kind, but after the first volley, their cohesion began to waver. Finally forced to fire upon the Supreme Commander, some ship masters felt their loyalty to the Prophets slip away. The subsequent barrage was lessened somewhat as the guns of several vessels remained quiet. Within their hulls, new conflicts erupted, some wars of words and posturing, others open bloodshed as newly-minted separatists and loyalists fought for control of their ships with mutinies, counter-mutinies, and summary executions.

Abandoning those warships stricken by internal strife, High Charity's vanguard moved quickly to pursue the now-motile oblong formation that was threatening to smash through the rear defensive line. As cruisers and assault carriers on both sides exchanged volleys of fire at rapidly decreasing ranges, a typhoon of Seraph fightercraft wove between the blasts. As their carrier commanders ordered them to engage, pilots found their tactical computers overwhelmed by the sheer volume of other identical craft arrayed against and alongside them. Transponder recognition protocols next to worthless in the swirling storm of pulse lasers and fractured hulls, and large-scale maneuvering was quickly abandoned in favor of ship-to-ship dog fighting. Isolated squadrons fought simply to keep their pilots together and alive. Casualties to friendly fire alone mounted into the hundreds with shocking speed, and the toll promised to grow even faster as the titanic furball moved into the thick of the contracting defensive line.

As massed fire shattered the defensive field of the sleek battlecruiser on the outermost port flank of 'Falanamee's formation, burning away meters of heavy armor in instants and sending the stricken vessel into a drunken spin, the rest of the force closed even closer to the rear defensive line, their weapons emplacements forging a road of brilliant illumination before them. With combatants mere dozens of kilometers apart now, the plasma projectors of the opposing fleet barely had to aim at all, and returned the fire with even greater ferocity. Several ships at the tip of the hurtling bullet were forced to veer off and fall back under the onslaught and one, hit head-on by the searing beam of a capital energy projector, disintegrated outright, its hull peeling back from its curved nose as its reactor ignited with the uncontainable infusion of power.

The rest of the mass pressed on undaunted, and within moments, the lead elements were skirting past their counterparts, scant kilometers apart. Furious broadsides rent a dozen ships on both sides into showers of burning fragments, but the separatist warships still moved forward, and what remained of the rear line was forced to flee. Colossal hulls wallowed up and down, left and right as fast as their drives could propel them, their crews left overwhelmed and disoriented by the ferocity of the onslaught. The survivors maneuvered to rejoin the rest of the pursuing vanguard force, and soon were lobbing fresh fusillades of blue fire at the Fleet of Particular Justice, but the damage was done. High Charity's outer defensive line was broken.

The frigates and carriers assigned to the space station unleashed a new torrent of fire upon the approaching vessels, and a fresh force of fightercraft surged forward to harass and distract. High Charity, now directly threatened, also joined the battle; all across its surface, the jagged peaks of massive plasma projectors hummed with energy and spat burning comets of energetic particles the size of bulk transports into the void. The smallest and most maneuverable among the attackers were able to avoid the more devastating blasts, and largest were able to absorb the first volleys of these defensive guns, but many of the others could do nothing but burn in space as they were bisected by the massive projectiles.

And still, outnumbered and beset from both sides as it was, the fleet surged onward. Now 'Falanamee's flagship, the _Sacrosanct_, was at the head of the formation. A large swath of its smooth underside was blackened by the impact of concentrated volley of plasma bolts earlier in the battle, and smaller burns covered its wide aft section, but it fought as though it was fresh from the shipyard. A quartet of well-placed blasts from its main guns tore a large chunk from a frigate that had dared to approach the tip of the formation, no longer a blunt bullet but a focused cone of ships, aimed fixedly at the capital city's bulbous cap.

Then, when Particular Justice had almost closed ranks with High Charity's warship perimeter, it abruptly dispersed, vessels modest and massive alike breaking their advanced and spreading out in opposition to the defenders. Shots from the walls in front and behind went wide, and as the vanguard struggled to realign they firing arcs, each attacking vessel chose a target amongst the ranks of the final line and opened fire, igniting local space with the glare of weapons discharges, multi-gigaton explosions, and the angry flickering of energy shields. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction that the change of strategy had sewn, the _Sacrosanct_ and an escort of two assault carrier and half a dozen destroyers and light cruisers, broke through the terminal barrier. Forests of point-defense weapons on High Charity's curving bulk came to life, spraying the intruders with lethal fire, but before more than a few bolts could find their marks, a torrent of fightercraft poured through the gap after the larger vessels, enveloping them in a roiling cocoon that confused the space station's gunners and drew off the lighter emplacements.

Before the ships of the combined fleet could turn their guns upon the breaching warships, dozens of troop carriers, dropships, and close-support aircraft hurtled from the cavernous hangar bays of the flagship and its companions. Pulse lasers from the station's looming surfaces began to tear into them, but the emplacements were quickly silenced as 'Falanamee's ships opened fire on the capital for the first time. Under cover of the bombardment and the shield of flanking Seraphs, the detachment of landing craft rocketed towards High Charity's hull, crossed the small distance to where its cap tapered off to meet the base of its massive, protuberant tail section, and disappeared over the lip. As the tiny vessels began to maneuver their way through the station's last defenses and into its honeycombed outer crust, the warships that had delivered them turned back and rejoined their brothers in battle.

Hundreds of millions of kilometers away, still far too distant to directly observe the furious melee but aware of it nonetheless, four white hulls advanced.

* * *

Neither Migaw nor Cakap had ever seen the inside of the High Council's meeting chamber before, either in person or by proxy. Only the privileged elite were allowed within its gently-steepled, high walls, and the common masses only knew of what transpired within from the periodic proclamations given on the high terrace beyond the chamber's well-guarded gates. As the pair were ushered in, impromptu and mercifully ignored parts of Ship Master 'Nefaaleme's escort, they were momentarily overwhelmed by the majesty of the place. Even from the shadowed corner where they stood, surrounded by towering Sangheili and Lekgolo, the sweeping rows of elevated benches, broad and immaculately polished wall supports, and seemingly limitless ceiling were awe-inspiring for creatures used to the cramped quarters of transports and carrier barracks.

For what was almost the first time in his life, Cakap wondered if the favor of the gods was actually with him. By some miracle, probably due to the ship master's haste to travel down to the holy city with his charges, Migaw and he had managed attach themselves to guard surrounding the two human captives as it moved for the _August Judgment_'s prison block to one of its hangar bays, and from there onto a large, fast transport craft. After a brief journey, they had found themselves disembarked at one of the station's private, high security ports and ushered hurriedly through the upper districts. Cakap had thought the elegant streets and gardens they passed seemed oddly vacant, but then again he had never been to the station before, and knew little of its inner workings.

They had only been challenged personally once, just before the group entered a sheltered passageway on the anterior side of the High Council's tower complex. A Jiralhanae guard had evidently noticed that their uniforms were not those of marines or special ops, like the few other Unggoy in the escort, and had demanded they explain their presence. Migaw had nearly fainted and Cakap was barely able to stammer out a half-baked excuse involving the post of "human-tamer" or some other imagined position, but before the guard could inquire further, 'Nefaaleme had used his authority to deflect him and gain the group entry into the structure. Distracted either by his eagerness to reach the Council Chambers or his diastase for the Jiralhanae, the ship master had not questioned them further, and neither had any of his protectors, each of whom was also to tense to notice a couple of lowly labors in their midst.

The company had finally arrived at their destination, Cakap gathered from the chamber's busy and grand nature, and 'Nefaaleme had disappeared behind the sloping partition that shadowed the humans and their guards from the rest of the hall. No one had told him exactly where they were, but he had decided that they must be at the Covenant's very core because of the sheer number of robed Prophets and magnificently-armored Sangheili that stretched out before and above him. They were seated on the elevated platforms that lined both walls of the long chamber; forty silver-armored councilors or more packed the benches on one side, while a few dozen Prophet's sat upon the other. Cakap noticed that their benches were not nearly as crowded, with several conspicuous gaps between the representatives. The wide nave between the stands was oddly empty, save for a few raised terminals and a crimson-inlaid walkway.

Curious to see what could illuminate such a space, Cakap looked towards the ceiling. From the uppermost tier of the gradually-narrowing roof, all but lost from sight, a gulf of brilliance poured white light down in a great, piercing drift. Migaw gazed at the sight in open awe, and for once Cakap could not begrudge his speechlessness. If ever there was a place made divine by its design alone, this was it.

An artificially-amplified voice emanating from somewhere behind the obstruction beyond which 'Mefasee had disappeared, calling the Unggoy back from their momentary reverie. It was thin and dry, but undeniably commanding, with the characteristically overbearing and subtly dismissive tone of the most obnoxious and self-important Sangheili. Still, Cakap knew immediately that the speaker was not of the warrior caste, for he had heard the voice before. Every servant of the Covenant had. It was the High Prophet Regret, current constituent of the triumvirate that had dominated the Unggoy species for countless generations.

"Honored councilors, I can only assure you again, the Prophets would never pursue any course that would see the Sangheili unseated from their ancient role as our protectors and generals," he was saying. "The friendship of our two peoples is the very foundation of the Holy Covenant. Without us, you would not know the will of the gods, and without you, we could not spread their gifts throughout the stars. Why would we upset this divine duality?"

"What of the Jiralhanae, Hierarch?" a Sangheili councilor asked stridently. "Teno 'Falanamee speaks the truth when he says that many of their kind have been allowed to take on roles that the Sangheili alone have filled for millennia. They are allowed privilege and rank that no other client race of this union has ever even dared dream of. Hundreds of ships defending this very Council are no crewed largely by Jiralhanae. Some of them have claimed the rank of ship master!"

"The Jiralhanae are still newly of this covenant," Regret replied calmly. "They have not yet been given a lasting place in it, and we are granting their kind an opportunity to prove their loyalty and demonstrate where they might be of the greatest use to us all. I will admit, they have taken well to the decks of the holy armada, and we have allowed them certain… extraordinary dispensations. Nevertheless, the Jiralhanae have never shown themselves nearly as capable or cunning as your own warriors. It is not the intent of the Hierarchs for your primacy in martial matters to be challenged. We would never allow it."

"Remember the first canto of the Writ of Union, councilors!" This was a new voice, but familiar nonetheless. The High Prophet of Mercy's high, wavering speech brought a lifetime of public sermons and affirmations to Cakap's mind.

"So full of hate were our eyes

That none of us could see

Our war would yield countless dead

But never victory

So let us cast aside

And like discard our wrath

Thou, in faith, will keep us safe

Whilst we find the path"

"Prophet and Sangheili long ago learned the price of discord. It clouds us from our true path, distracts us from the wisdom of the gods. To deprive your people of their ancestral guardianship would only invite the chaos of the Ages of Conflict and Doubt, and strip us of all we learned of the gods and their devices."

Many of the Sangheili councilors whispered to each other uncertainly after this proclamation, but not all were so easily swayed. Another near the back row stood to make himself heard.

"The Jiralhanae are not the only matter at hand. 'Falanamee implied that there are other currents of change within our union of late, and that cannot be denied. You, noble Hierarchs, have taken a far greater role in the prosecution of war than any of your predecessors have in countless generations. It was by your word that the war against the humans was made one of annihilation rather than assimilation, as has always been our custom. Your directives have compelled specific fleets and forces of arms to move from system to system often since the arrival of the humans' new warships, sometimes over the protest of our high admirals."

A Sangheili closer to the front raised his voice in agreement. "The very social order of our homeworlds has been changing at your behest. Age-old centers of commerce and industry have become obsolete, and new ones have sprung up closer to the fringe. The Unggoy have been multiplying far faster than the needs of conquest have demanded. The Yanme'e have been allowed to grow more and more insular. The Kig-Yar, mercenaries and privateers, have been given prominent roles in the Armada, despite their questionable loyalties."

A sharp laugh from across the chamber interrupted the speaker.

"Kig-Yar? Unggoy? Jiralhanae? Has it become Sangheili custom to obsess over the lower castes?" a Prophet councilor jeered. "What concern is it of ours how they arrange themselves, as long as they serve humbly and loyally? Do you see a Jiralhanae in silver armor seated next to you? A robed Kig-Yar next to me?"

Several of the other Prophets began to laugh as well. The Sangheili who had been interrupted glowered dangerously at them, but before he could speak again, Regret's voice rose again.

"There is no need for such jibbing, councilors, not here of all places. Your concerns are valid, Councilor 'Tadasee, as are yours, Councilor 'Niglethee, but you must understand, this Covenant must adapt as it faces its final trials on the path to the Great Journey. The humans are but one obstacle that must be overcome before we are all to be saved, and to do that, we must sacrifice the security of some of the old traditions. Reflect upon what has been done, councilors, and you will see that it has all been for the betterment of the Covenant and its people, the Sangheili included. Do not let the vitriol of a heretic like Teno 'Falanamee cloud your vision."

"The traitor skilled wielder of both word and blade, but do not let him deceive you with either. His words are devoid of truth, and his might has atrophied with the taint of heresy. Come, look upon his favored agent, one who he has trusted above all others! A female of the lowliest clan!"

Something must have occurred that neither of the Unggoy could see, because the councilors began to murmur more loudly and rapidly than ever before. There was the sound of a body falling to the floor, and a then a low moan. Migaw perked up at the sound, but Cakap couldn't quite place it.

"What is the meaning of this, Hierarch?" a councilor demanded. "Who is she?"

"This is Deau 'Mefasee, once a transport pilot attached to the _August Judgmen__t_. 'Falanamee transferred her to his personal staff when he came to this city last, and then left her when he was dispatched to combat the humans. She is the one who planted the message that has spread discord and confusion throughout this system. Do not blame this pitiable creature for her crime; no doubt, 'Falanamee's corruption overcame her. She is just a portend of the traitor's true nature. He knows what he preaches is false, and so he only places his trust in beings he can dominate absolutely."

Migaw stared at Cakap, fright visible in his beady eyes. "Her!" he whispered urgently. "What should we do now?"

Cakap had no answer. He had never expected the Sangheili's order to take them as far as it had. Now she was captured, and they were very far from the familiar warrens of their carrier, leaderless in a place they should have never dared venture.

"But this is not the height of his depravity. No, the blasphemer is not content merely to question the word of the gods, insight rebellion, and tyrannize the minds of the weak. Ship master, bring them forward."

Ahead of Cakap and Migaw, one of 'Nefaaleme's guardians made a rapid hand gesture, and the entire company started forward. The two Unggoy could do nothing but follow as their group filed around the obstructing pylon. As they emerged from the shadows, Cakap could see that they had entered the chamber through a secreted entrance at its back left corner. Beside them, facing the empty nave from a raised circular dais, the thrones of Regret and Mercy floated in the middle of a ring. A ring of bright light, within which both were positioned, both defined them in the eerily-lit chamber, and seemed to separate them from it.

Below them, to one side of the rostrum, a well-groomed and unusually well armored Jiralhanae stood with his head bowed in customary respect for the assembly. At his feet, the prone and naked form of Deau 'Mefasee lay sprawled. Her arms and legs were badly bruised, and she appeared to have slipped into unconsciousness. On the side closer to them, Ship Master 'Nefaaleme stood, watching his soldiers and their charges enter view.

A silent signal made them halt again just outside of their shadowed alcove, and the pair of special operations marines moved back, parting the ranks of the other guards. Each seized one of the humans by a forearm and dragged them out of the group towards the dais. Another cue directed the rest to retreat back into the darkened space, but Cakap and Migaw lingered near the obscuring support's lip, watching as the beings they had been tasked with guarding were dragged out of their reach.

"Eminent Councilors, Hierarchs, I am Galo 'Nefaaleme, ship master of the fleet carrier _August Judgment_. I was at the human world Reach when the first blade-ships appeared. I watched the _Ascendant Justic__e_ fall to the weapons of the enemy, and my ship recovered the Supreme Commander 'Falanamee after the attackers were initially repelled. He was not the only being that found his way onto my ship that day, however."

He gestured sharply to the two beleaguered humans now standing before him, each still held straight by the special operations soldiers. The councilors looked on in varying degrees of surprise, confusion, and indignation. Never before had humans been brought into non-military construct, much less the very chambers of the High Council. Had any but the Hierarchs themselves ordered it, the sacrilege would have been punishable by immediate and dishonorable execution for whoever had propagated it.

"These two creatures, presumably survivors of the battle, managed to commandeer one of my salvage craft and latch it onto the _August Judgment_'s hull in hopes of evading the eyes of the armada. They were quickly discovered nonetheless, and after a customary interrogation, I was prepared to put them to death. Before my order could be carried out, however, 'Falanamee countermanded my authority. He demanded that the captives be spared and brought here for further interrogation, despite the fact that they had shown no sign of bearing any useful information. And then, when my vessel arrived here, he made no effort to inform this council or any other authority of their existence. He was content to let them sit in my holding bay, fed and sheltered from their rightful judgment."

Regret moved forward, raising his hands, and 'Nefaaleme fell obediently silent, although he looked fully prepared to say more.

"Is this a being who you would wish to ally yourselves with, friends? Consort of weak-minded females and protector of abominations in the eyes of the gods? Teno 'Falanamee was once a great warrior, but some weakness in his heart has tainted him, and caused him to stray from the true path. Do not allow yourselves to stray as he did."

The muttering of the Sangheili councilors was even louder now. Some still sat silently with their arms crossed, their faces impenetrable masks, but others peered from the disgraced pilot to the captured humans uneasily. The evidence of the Supreme Commander's corruption could be fabrications, of course, but if it was true…

"Teno 'Falanamee is dead."

From the shadowed alcove on the opposite side of the rostrum the final member of the Covenant's supreme triumvirate. The gold of his throne and his gilded crown glinted in the mystic light as he joined his fellows on the dais. A massive, white-haired Jiralhanae who had accompanied him in stopped a respectful distance away from the Prophets, and stood with arms akimbo. His raised upper lip revealed a row of vicious teeth in what could only have been a smirk.

"The heretic's flagship, the _Sacrosanct_, has been destroyed," the third hierarch continued before the suddenly still assembly. Even the other High Prophets stared at Truth in shock. "None escaped from the vessel's death throes. I watched it burn to embers myself."

"What are you saying?" one of the Sangheili councilors, 'Niglethee, demanded, all decorum momentarily forgotten. "How could you know this? Teno 'Falanamee's should still be on the fringe of Covenant space."

"The former Supreme Commander brought a rebellious fleet here, to this system, with the intention of conquering High Charity."

"What?" another councilor roared, jumping from his bench. "Why were we not informed? It is our duty to lead the armada, especially if this city is threatened!"

"Do not concern yourself, honored councilor," Truth said calmly. "Your warriors have acquitted themselves exemplarily against the traitors, and even as we speak, their remaining warships are being obliterated."

"I shall say again, the heretic 'Falanamee has fallen, and his apostasy will perish with him. There will be no schism of this Covenant, not this day, and not ever until the ending of this realm and our ascendance into the realm of the gods. Rejoice, friends, for the faithful have triumphed!"

The Council Chamber's main door resounded with the thud of a heavy impact. The noise was so loud and unexpected that all eyes in the hall turned from the High Prophet simultaneously and fixed onto the entryway. The pair of ornately-armored Honor Guard who had been rooted to posts just out of sight on either side of the door moved cautiously towards it, their glowing ceremonial pikes at the ready. The clamorous sound did not repeat itself, but those in the chamber with keen ears could detect a very faint hiss from beyond the heavy, carved metal door, like the din of a welding torch.

Then there was a clank from somewhere within the barrier, and it drew back into the surrounding wall. With a wet thud, the body of a Jiralhanae soldier spilled into the chamber, its fur covered in thick blood that trailed from a large gash in its back. Its right hand still clutched a metallic shaft identical to the ones that the attending Honor Guard carried. The eyes of the guardians lingered on the corpse only momentarily before flashing back to the open aperture, where several figures now stood.

Over the slain Jiralhanae, backed by a squad of heavily-armed Sangheili in uniforms of all colors, Supreme Commander Teno 'Falanamee stepped into the Council Chamber, a lit plasma sword blazing in his right hand.


	47. Chapter Sixty Five

**Chapter Sixty Five**

There was no clamor from the assembled councilors. No one expressed shock at seeing the warrior who had just been placed among the ranks of the dead. No one even recoiled at the presence of heretics in one of the holiest places of the Covenant, or the weapons they brandished so unashamedly. They simply watched, transfixed. No councilor, Sangheili and Prophet alike, dared to step between the Hierarchs and their nemesis.

Teno 'Falanamee advanced another step, and then raised his free hand, a sign for his escorts. They obediently withdrew from the doorway back into the great hall's antechamber, but they did not seal the door, or slacken the grip on their weapons. Satisfied, the Supreme Commander continued on slowly, his eyes fixed squarely upon Truth, who sat motionless at the end of the Council chamber.

The pair of Honor Guards flanking the breached entryway took a moment to react to the new arrival, but when they finally moved they did so swiftly, rushing past the intruder and blocking his path with their pikes and towering stature. The fine points of each weapon angled directly at 'Falanamee's long neck, but he did not flinch or fall back. Instead, he let his gaze meet each of theirs in turn. All three stood quite still, the thoughts and emotions of each warring silently.

"So, you've escaped judgment once again." Truth's voice echoed in the breathless space, cold but calm. "I failed to see your loss of favor with the gods when you were nearly slain at Reach. Rest assured, you will not escape your just fate again."

"Nor shall you, Prophet," 'Falanamee replied, his voice measured in spite of the blades fixed less than a meter from his flesh. "The gods do not look kindly upon betrayers, and your treachery is greater than any this Covenant has ever known."

"Treachery!" Regret stammered from behind Truth. "You have assaulted this holy city! You have incited rebellion with your lies! Even now, you stand in this hallowed chamber with a sword drawn in anger! And you accuse us of treachery?"

Truth held up a bony hand to silence him. "The magnitude of your heresy is self-evident, 'Falanamee. Your claims have no foundation in fact, and your mind has been tainted by some poison of doubt or vainglory. It is a testament to the restraint of my brothers and I that you still live. Do not think, though, that we will continue to show this mercy if you trespass further."

"Do not further defile this hall with your guile, Prophet," 'Falanamee said. "It is clear to all of us that you and you alone are the master of your machinations. Do not hide behind these others or any of your kind; they are slaves, subservient to your will. If you wish to challenge my words, at least find the courage to do so frankly."

Regret and Mercy's jaws fell open and they began to fidget upon their elevated seats, but neither seemed willing or able to respond to the charge. Murmurs shot through both council galleries. There had long been rumors that triumvirate had fallen under the domination of one of their number, in opposition to the ancient customs of the Covenant, but no one had ever voiced them before in a High Prophet's presence, much less all three.

Truth's face was a mask, but he spoke quickly and loudly to silence the whispered discussion. "Enough! There will be no more slurs spoken in this chamber by you, Teno 'Falanamee! You are hereby stripped of your rank and all your rights as a warrior of this Covenant. Your actions have shown that you are nothing more than a heretic, and you shall meet a heretic's end! Guards, take him from this place!"

'Falanamee's eyes returned to the two Honor Guards. Neither had moved to comply with Truth's command. From beneath their great helms, they stared intently at the proclaimed heretic, as though trying to peer into his mind. He did not blink or falter under their combined stares, instead swelling to his full height and slackened his grip on the hilt of his energy sword. Its dual points flickered and vanished.

"Do what you will, brothers," 'Falanamee said. "This blade is not for either of you."

Slowly, the guardians withdrew their pikes and stepped from the former Supreme Commander's path. Truth's thin lips quivered with fury, and the other Honor Guard at attention around the chamber shifted slightly, their minds cast into doubt by the actions of their comrades. Before the High Prophet could shout another order and test their resolve, however, weapons fire echoed from the antechamber.

One of the Sangheili standing outside the inner door barked an order to 'Falanamee's other escorts and they moved hurriedly from sight. The hiss and belch of plasma weaponry resounded again, followed by several muffled roars and indistinct shouts. There was a scuffling noise closer to the door, and then the colossal frame of Xytan 'Jar Wattinree stooped through the opening, his gold and silver armor splattered with purple blood.

The Imperial Admiral clutched his own energy sword in one hand, and dragged a red-armored Sangheili major by the neck with the other. When the titan caught sight of 'Falanamee, he cast the warrior in his grasp violently to one side, sending him into a protruding, sculpted support with a crunch of distressed metal.

"I gave you a chance to die with dignity, 'Falanamee!" he rasped, stalking forward with powerful strides. "I gave you the chance to escape a dishonorable death, despite your heresy! Instead, you spit upon me and defile my generosity! You steal my soldiers, set brother against brother, and bring doom down upon us all!"

'Falanamee did not retreat before the enraged Sangheili, but neither did he reply.

"Do not think I do not know what you have done!" Wattinree bellowed. "You realized what the Prophets of Radiant Sanctum knew, and yet you let the humans seize them! You lead the blade-ships here, to this holy place, and destroy all hopes opposition by turning our people against one another!"

"There are blade-ships here, in this system?" a Sangheili councilor demanded. "Why were we not informed of this, Hierarchs? What else has been kept from us?"

Wattinree ignored the speaker. He only had eyes for 'Falanamee.

"I have done what I must to save our people, Admiral," the former Supreme Commander said, quietly, but clearly. "The crimes of the Prophets must be addressed, and their power broken. This is the only way."

"You are mad, heretic!" Wattinree boomed, stopping within arm's length of the resolute warrior. "By your actions you have betrayed our people and this Covenant! Sangheili die uselessly outside these walls because of your treason! You no longer deserve even the air which you breathe, and I shall ensure that you take no more of it!"

With a mighty roar, he raised his glistening sword high into the air and brought it crashing down onto where 'Falanamee stood. For all the speed and agility honed by decades of unending drills and merciless combat, it was all that the shamed officer could do to avoid the ferocious blow. The polished floor plates before Wattinree were rent into smoking fragments as the blade gouged them, and when the admiral wrenched his weapon back, the wrecked surface bled a fountain of sparks from a severed conduit beneath.

The Honor Guards backed swiftly out of Wattinree's path, and 'Falanamee had no place to move but back, up the Council chamber's long nave. His sword burst to life only just in time to deflect a brutal chop that Wattinree aimed at him from the left, charging forward as he struck. 'Falanamee regained his footing and managed to parry another swift blow, but found that the other Sangheili was again too close and fully before him. Nearly half-again as tall as his prey, Wattinree's size and strength were almost unmatched by any save the greatest Lekgolo, and he knew it well. The giant brought his blade down upon his foe once more, placing all his incomparable might behind it.

'Falanamee knew that he could not stop the blow, and could do nothing but jump back again, his energy sword raised and at the ready. Wattinree regained his balance quickly despite his massive bulk and pressed forward again, each of his slashes a killing blow. Against the blistering edge of the energy blade and the might of its wielder, 'Falanamee's energy shield and thin armor plating would be useless.

Knowing that he could not stay on the defensive forever and hope to survive, 'Falanamee ducked under the next blow, and rather than fall back, he charged directly at his attacker, leveling his blade at the armored midriff. Wattinree side-stepped the lunge, and with the same surprising speed he had exploited before, seized hold 'Falanamee's forearm as the sword it held sailed past. The shield of the smaller fighter's armor flared and crackled, its glassy surface strained under the imperial admiral's iron grip. 'Falanamee felt his feet slip along the floor as the massive hand interrupted his momentum and began to drag him into the air.

'Falanamee knew that he was completely vulnerable to attack, and saw out of the corner of his eye the brilliant fangs of Wattinree's blade, poised to impale his exposed flank. His left foot fell upon the raised heel of one of Wattinree's boots, and he kicked off from it as hard as he could, simultaneously twisting his sword arm. The shield burst into a shower of sparks and Wattinree's four fingers dug shallow gouges in the metal vambrace, but the giant lost his grip and 'Falanamee tumbled free just as the sword probed the air where he had been momentarily suspended.

Wattinree wasted no time, and fell upon 'Falanamee again even as he struggled to rise from the ground. As the admiral's blade slashed down at his chest, he could do nothing but meet it full with his own sword. The two clashed violently, and 'Falanamee's arm began to buckle as Wattinree bent his full musculature into the blow. The defending duelist felt the bones in his arm creak under the strain. Wattinree sensed that his prey was weakening and leaned in further until he filled 'Falanamee's vision. The added weight was simply too much for the sword arm to withstand, and with a blinding pulse of pain he felt the bone in his forearm snap. As it did, however, he rolled out from under Wattinree, taking advantage of the fact that the admiral had sacrificed his own balance in his eagerness to slay the heretic.

As Wattinree recovered, 'Falanamee rose to his feet, passing his sword from the shattered arm to the intact one as he did. He pressed the wounded limb to his chest, and the pain abated slightly, enough to allow him to think clearly once more. 'Falanamee could now see how Wattinree had achieved his high rank, and why he had never been defeated in personal combat. His enormous size and strength were factors, but he was also oddly swift and agile, and his skill with the energy blade was painfully evident. Even if the two had been of the same build, 'Falanamee was not certain he would be able to best the Imperial Admiral under normal circumstances.

But as the combatant turned towards him once again, 'Falanamee could see that his broad chest was heaving beneath its ornate covering. They had been fighting for barely a minute, he had the clearly had the upper hand, and was completely uninjured, and yet Wattinree's breaths were harsh and deep. One look at the eyes within his high helm told 'Falanamee why. His foe was so consumed with fury, so intent upon destroying the heretic who had defied him that he was attacking recklessly, without thought of pacing himself. That made the glowering titan even more dangerous, certainly, but it also gave 'Falanamee a faint glimmer of hope, absent since the Admiral had appeared in the Council chamber's doorway.

Wattinree's onslaught began again as fierce as it had been before, and 'Falanamee was forced back into retreat. He could wield a blade nearly as well with his left hand as his right, but the loss of the latter had affected his balance, and parrying Wattinree's was becoming swiftly more difficult and laborious. He attempted to turn the melee back up the admiral several times, scoring several glancing blows against his energy shield, but none were powerful enough to breach the barrier, and Wattinree responded to each attempt with three blows of his own.

Suddenly, 'Falanamee felt his back run up against a ridged surface, one of the large holographic projection terminals that flanked the nave's central walkway. Seeing his prey pinned, Wattinree drove his weapon straight at the other's chest. 'Falanamee spun from the column, his sword clattering against the attacker's in a useless attempt to turn it away. As he tried to keep himself from falling to the floor, the Sangheili felt what was left of his armor's shield shatter and in an instant a swath of flesh from his right shoulder all the way down his back burned with pain, its protective plate unable to repel Wattinree's slash.

Grunting and biting against the growing agony of the wound, 'Falanamee stumbled onto his hands and knees and crawled away from the terminal. With bleary eyes, he could see the Hierarchs and their court. In an instant, he took in 'Mefasee's prone form, Reginald Barclay's terrified face. He saw Truth's smirk, Tartarus' sneer, and Ship Master 'Nefaaleme's face, oddly devoid of satisfaction at the downfall of his old adversary. He saw, too, as the pair of Honor Guards near the head of the chamber, close at hand now, stepped quickly back.

He rolled to the left, barely hearing Wattinree's blade as it bit deeply into the polished plate where he had been an instant before. 'Falanamee struggled to rise, but a swift kick sent him sprawling again. He tumbled hard into another of the raised terminals, and he felt his sword slip from his hand. He thrust his arm out feverishly, searching for it, but found nothing. A moment later, he felt a great weight slam into his sprawled left leg. 'Falanamee groaned as the bone strained and cracked, and looked up to see Wattinree standing over him, two energy swords now in his hands.

"It is over, heretic," he heaved, angling both blades at the trapped form of his enemy. "Know that the sons of the Sangheili will remember your name with nothing but distain, for you deserve nothing more."

"And you…" 'Falanamee gasped through the pain sweeping over him. "Know that you will be remembered as a great and proud warrior. A fool, but a great warrior nonetheless."

Wattinree snarled savagely, and leaned low over the heretic, eyes wild and shot with blood. He drew his arms back, and then plunged each of the swords at 'Falanamee's heart.

The Sangheili watched the four glowing spikes fall for a split second, and then twisted his torso violently to the left, so that he slipped from the column against which he had been propped. The blades plunged deep into his right shoulder, boiling away golden armor and black bodysuit and settling into a mangled mess of flesh, blood, and bone. As one of the prongs burst from 'Falanamee's back, the two pairs of searing points crossed and momentarily locked together. Though blinded and breathless from the agony of the blow, 'Falanamee threw his left arm up and caught hold of Wattinree's wrist. His fingers locked tightly around the sheen of his energy shield, and he pulled with all his strength.

Expecting the dual stab to be a killing blow, Wattinree had allowed himself to overextend his center of gravity, and he was unable to resist the sudden pull on his left arm. With a startled rumble, he toppled over onto his side, nearly crushing 'Falanamee under his enormous bulk. The two blades tore free from the smaller soldier's shoulder and their prongs slid further into one another, locking them more fully. His hand still clasped tightly around Wattinree's wrist, 'Falanamee pushed towards the imperial admiral's chest, and the swords moved back towards their wielder.

Supine and disoriented by the sudden fall, Wattinree didn't notice that his arm was being pushed until he caught sight of the twin swords raised above his face. He tugged the right blade away, and it complied, but with it came the shimmering barbs of the left, now angled down before his split chin. Their tips slashed the surface of his shielding, and the barrier sputtered with a shower of arcing light.

His eyes flashed from the deadly points to his wrist to 'Falanamee's face, now spare centimeters from his own. The former Supreme Commander saw understanding dawn in them, and something else as well, but he could not wait to comprehend it. His grip tightened, and he threw his weight against Wattinree's left arm.

Only one barb of crystalline light penetrated the Imperial Admiral's shield and what lay beneath, but it was enough. Xytan 'Jar Wattinree spluttered as the sword slid slowly into his long neck, thrashed slightly as simmering blood spat from the small gash, and then lay still.

Reluctantly, 'Falanamee's fingers released Wattinree's limp wrist and let it fall onto the dead Sangheili's chest. He stared at the body for a long, silent moment, and then slowly, laborious, pushed himself onto one knee, wincing as he pulled his fractured left leg across the ground. Pausing first to draw a deep draft of air through his open jaws, 'Falanamee looked towards the Prophet's dais.

The look on Truth's face had transformed from satisfaction to rage, and perhaps, the Sangheili squinted through heavy eyes, fear. He seemed oblivious to the awed whispering that was slowly rising from those around him. Squaring his back and raising his bulbous head as high as he could, the High Prophet directed his throne to hover forward, away from the Hierarch's isolated ring.

"Tartarus."

The Jiralhanae chieftain, whose face had also lost its savage mirth, stepped forward to join his master, hefting his gravity hammer in both hands. 'Falanamee was motionless as the two approached, still heaving from the gravity of his wounds.

The assembled councilors were still locked in breathless silence, but Truth would not have heard them even if they were shouting in unison. The full breadth of his intellect was fixed upon the wounded Sangheili, and his intent was clear.

"Your skill in combat has survived your heresy, I see," he said slowly, halting several paces before 'Falanamee. "But this victory will not save you. All you have done is rob this Covenant of another champion in its hour of need. For that alone you should die a sinner's death, if you had not so fully earned such judgment by your other crimes."

"Wattinree will not be the last to die this day, nor the most deserving," 'Falanamee managed through trembling jaws.

"Indeed."

Truth nodded shortly to Tartarus, and the hulking albino stepped from his side, moving to face the kneeling Sangheili. The Jiralhanae towered above his prey, filling 'Falanamee's vision with a solid mass of white fur, rough hide, and the polished metal of the chieftain's favored weapon. At the top of this mountain of flesh and mane, two crimson eyes glinted down at him.

Tartarus took his weapon into both hands and slowly aimed its massive head at the motionless 'Falanamee. The Jiralhanae's lips were drawn back in a jagged grimace, but he moved with obvious relish.

"You need that to kill me, Jiralhanae?" 'Falanamee asked, his eyes not locked onto the weapon but the eyes of its wielder.

Tartarus snorted. "I would not sully my hands with the blood of a heretic like you."

The hammerhead leveled at 'Falanamee's helmed forehead, now less than half a meter away. Tartarus' toothy expression widened as he fingered the activation stud on his weapon's haft. He had tested the hammer's most powerful setting on the injured and vulnerable before, and it never failed to please him.

The Jiralhanae's eyes wandered down to his weapon briefly, reveling in its blunt and murderous form, and then moved back to meet 'Falanamee's stare once more. Perhaps Tartarus had hoped that his glee would corrode the Sangheili's resolve before his end, and his lips opened marginally in preparation for a final taunt. However, the words did not come.

Instead of hopelessness or terror, the look Tartarus saw upon the face of his prey was one of pure defiance. It conveyed a strength that belied 'Falanamee's battered condition, and indeed exceeded any that the Jiralhanae had ever seen in him. The being that stared at him was not merely a proud and charismatic warrior, a fighter and leader of soldiers. The brute looked instead upon a creature that had endured physical strain and mental torment that would have broken almost any other; a being that had been robbed of everything, and yet still fought and suffered for its fellows and its kind. Tartarus saw the heart of the Sangheili people, the avatar of their will, their honor, and their pride.

He looked into the eyes of the Arbiter.

"Do it!" Truth hissed at Tartarus' back.

The chieftain had frozen, unable to break free from the crushing stare. His lips closed around his pointed teeth, and he fumbled for the hammer's firing stud, but before he could find it, Teno 'Falanamee's left arm shot up and he laid hold on the weapon's haft. As Tartarus looked on mutely, he jerked the hammerhead away from his face, and then slowly pulled himself up, using the hammer and the Jiralhanae's own quivering brawn for support. His eye's never left Tartarus', and the latter was held fast by the power of his gaze.

"Were you not going to crush, Tartarus?" 'Falanamee asked clearly in the silence. "Don't you have the will to take me alone? Don't you have the will to challenge the Sangheili? That is what you wanted, isn't it? To take our place with your bare hands?"

'Falanamee pushed himself laboriously to his full height and Tartarus fell back a step. Above, a Sangheili councilor murmured something, and then others joined him, their voices resonant and harsh in the still air. The red beads of Tartarus' eyes sped towards them and traced erratically from face to face, their vision blurred by the turmoil in the Jiralhanae's mind. He took another step back, and 'Falanamee moved with him.

The Sangheili craned his neck closer, and moved his mandibles in a whisper.

"Fear suits you, animal."

Tartarus' savage face contorted violently with rage at the insult, but nameless terror still weighed upon him heavily. His crimson pupils twitched within their bonds, thrashing from 'Falanamee to specters that no one else could see. Then, in a burst of motion, Tartarus attempted to tear his weapon from the Sangheili's grasp. The violent exertion made 'Falanamee stagger forward a few pained steps and his arm buckled visibly, but his hold did not break. Before Tartarus could try again, he leaned toward the weapon and then kicked off from one of the Jiralhanae's trunk-like legs. The sudden movement propelled the hammer out of Tartarus' clutches and swung it around 'Falanamee's back. Its head slammed into the floor and screeched against the smooth surface as haft swung, but the Sangheili warrior kept it under his control. Crouching, he turned the weapon away from himself and leveraged the hammerhead into the air, fixing its shaft under the armpit of his limp arm and guiding it with the other.

The chieftain found himself less than a meter from the head of his own prized maul. He stared at the weapon, his jaw quivering, half open, and then looked again at 'Falanamee's resolute visage. The sight consumed him; he did not see that the Sangheili's legs were buckling, or that blood was flowing freely from the wounds on his back, or that the fingers of his left hand could not move towards the hammer's firing stub, so occupied were they with the simple task of keeping the massive weapon aloft. In Tartarus' eyes, his foe was indomitable.

The Jiralhanae took a halting step back, and then his contorted lips fell open as he unleashed a great roar.

As the terrible sound reverberated from the Council chamber's high roof, Truth's bulbous eyes bulged wide in horror, and his voice cracked.

"No! Tartarus, you fool!"

In unison, more than a dozen of the sealed doorways that lined every level of the chamber sprang open and a swarm of Jiralhanae shock troopers poured into the sacred space. Prophet and Sangheili councilors alike sprang to their feet in confusion and protest. Soldiers were a common sight within the Council chamber, but they were usually Sangheili, and few save the Honor Guard were normally permitted to bear non-ceremonial weaponry, firearms and explosive which jangled from troopers' bandoliers and bulged from their fists. The Jiralhanae swiftly filed into the central nave and spread into the ranks of the councilors, aiming their armaments at any Sangheili nearby.

Below, the leader of the force that Tartarus' signal had summoned paused, confused by the scene that was frozen before him. The officer had been informed that he would be called for only after the High Prophets and their kin had left, but they were still present, with several Sangheili soldiers close at hand. Jiralhanae made effective soldiers, but they were often reckless and indiscriminate in combat; the added variable of the Prophets could only slow them down. So the Jiralhanae lieutenant paused, unwilling to act with his masters so close, and his indecision crept easily through the ranks of his subordinates.

The few Honor Guards within the chamber came to their senses quickly and moved to rebuff the unannounced arrivals, but they were vastly outnumbered, and each one was swiftly surrounded by half a squad of the brutes. Before either could make the first move, however, one of the councilors, the Sangheili named 'Tadasee, leapt onto his seat, his hands thrust into the air.

"'Falanamee was right!" he bellowed over the rising din. "The Prophets and the Jiralhanae have betrayed us! Defend yourselves, brothers! Do not allow yourselves to be taken as we have been deceived!"

The reaction was immediate. In the face of such an overt and unexpected threat, even those councilors who had opposed 'Falanamee's sedition could do nothing but unite in outrage. They all knew that Truth's minion had summoned the Jiralhanae mob, and each could see the blackened barrels and glowing firing nodes of the weapons aimed squarely at them. What the Prophet's intent was, whether the soldiers meant to kill or merely subdue, did not matter. The insult was inexcusably brazen, and the councilors were the proudest of their people. They rose up as one furious tide, and fell upon their would-be suppressors with fists and feet, undaunted by the

firearms of the soldiers.

Truth watched as the Sangheili councilors unleashed themselves upon his soldiers. He had hoped fleetingly that he would retain control of the situation in spite of Tartarus' premature summons of his troopers, but that hoped dissolved as a pair of heavily-armed Jiralhanae collapsed under a ferocious barrage of hammer blows without firing a single shot. They were caught off-guard, and the councilors were as skillful as they were proud. The crack of Jiralhanae sidearms began to rend the air, but Truth was already moving into the nearest cluster of unengaged soldiers.

"Deal with this," he snarled at Tartarus as he angled towards the closest exit. "Don't let any of them escape."

The chieftain was still transfixed by 'Falanamee, but he managed a slow nod. The Sangheili still held the hammer at Tartarus' face, but the head had begun to dip, and his entire body was now trembling. As the Jiralhanae in the nave surrounded him, looking cautiously from their leader to the battered warrior, his strength finally gave out and he fell to his knees, Tartarus' hammer dropping uselessly before him. The clatter of the weapon seemed to break 'Falanamee's hold over its master, and he straightened up, his toothy leer returning, if weaker than it was before.

Tartarus stooped to reclaim his weapon, and then regarded 'Falanamee carefully. The former Supreme Commander kneeled with his right arm sprawled on one leg and his other flat on the floor for support. His breathing was loud and pained, and his golden armor was cracked and stained with dark blood. And yet he stared at Tartarus unblinkingly, still challenging even as he struggled with every breath.

The chieftain snorted nervously, shook himself, and then stepped back. He gestured to one of his lieutenants, and then turned away, fixing his attention on the melee above them. The indicated officer stepped up eagerly followed by two especially formidable creatures, each of them brandishing the bladed end of their grenade launchers. They drank in the sight of their bloodied victim and stalked forward ravenously, each eager to be the first to hew at 'Falanamee's flesh.

The lead soldier was an arm's length from the Sangheili when something propelled him into the air and splattered his sinewy form across the nearest wall. In his place, the blue-armored bulk of one of Ship Master 'Nefaaleme's Lekgolo rooted itself to the floor, shadowing 'Falanamee with its spiny, rolling form and beckoning to the startled Jiralhanae surrounding them with its outstretched shield arm, now splotched with gore. The giant's brother was close behind and thundered into another pack of simian troopers with a sonorous bellow, flailing with armored limbs and barbed carapace as it trampled a luckless lieutenant under its massive feet.

Tartarus' nostrils flared at the smell of the blood of his own kin, and he barked orders over the din of combat, his attention focused now upon the twin Lekgolo, one of which was barely a few strides from him. His soldiers complied quickly and drew back from the titans, priming grenades and shouldering their own projectile launchers. The Lekgolo did not pursue them, opting instead to shield the stationary 'Falanamee, but they still cast out wildly with their arms at any Jiralhanae that was slow in withdrawing. The pair dared not use the powerful energy weapons imbedded into their right forearms at such close range, but the Jiralhanae within the nave no longer had a charge to protect, and eagerly prepared to bombard the former Supreme Commander and his guardians.

As Tartarus' squads were still scrabbling into safe firing range, however, a smattering of plasma fire lit their outer flank, and several Jiralhanae fell to the floor, howling masses of burning flesh and hair. The rest of 'Nefaaleme's vanguard had joined the fight, and although most were occupied with the brutes that had moved to defend the High prophet's dais, a handful of Sangheili had managed to turn their beam rifles on the elder chieftain's massed force. The head of the chamber was a confused display of crisscrossing fire and rushing bodies, but even from where he kneeled, 'Falanamee could see Regret and Mercy, both panic-stricken, drop from sight as their circular platform plummeted into the floor. Blast doors sealed the escape route almost immediately, but not before 'Nefaaleme's two personal guards could cast themselves into the breach with energy blades closed in their fists. A strangled noise echoed from the shaft, but it was fleeting and swiftly consumed by the continued roars and cracks closer by.

Dead councilors littered the Sangheili side of the upper tiers, but Jiralhanae lay slain around them in even greater numbers, and the surviving elite were finishing off the interlopers with brutal efficiency. Some had produced energy swords secreted in armor and under seats, and the rest bore weapons torn from Jiralhanae hands.

The Honor Guard on the opposite side of the hall had been slain within moments of 'Tadasee's call to arms, and the shock troopers there were now guiding frantic Prophet councilors through the upper exits. Seeing that their comrades on the other balcony had fared far worse, several Jiralhanae lobbed explosive rounds into the ranks of the surviving Sangheili councilors, shattering the energy shields and vulnerable bodies of a few and sending the rest scattering for cover. Most made for the unsealed exits behind them or the overhangs of the chamber's towering support beams, but few of the warriors leapt down from the viewing platform, straight into the thick the other firefight. The sniping Jiralhanae turned their attention away from the enflamed councilors, figuring them dead, and were thus wholly unprepared when several scaled the curving wall below them moments later. Energy blades flashing and weaving, the vengeful elites tore through the troopers and leapt upon the remaining Prophets.

Millennia of pent-up bitterness and distrust exploded from the Sangheili, and their frail prey crumpled before them like leaves in a maelstrom.

Several squads of Jiralhanae reinforcements poured into the fray from a shadowed entryway only to be met immediately by a force of Sangheili from the chamber's atrium. It was a ragtag group, composed of soldiers with perforated armor and unstaunched wounds, but they set into the Jiralhanae with fanatical eagerness. The unit was led by a red-armored major who had accompanied 'Falanamee from the _Sacrosanct_ and a towering Honor Guard who had lost helm but charged into the loyalist ranks undaunted, his bladed staff blazing in the haze of combat. Just minutes before, the two had directed troops against one another, but they fought now as brother and comrade, sectarian strife forgotten. Word of the Prophet's betrayal had spread quickly.

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Reginald Barclay had endured weeks of constant uncertainty, pain, and mortal terror with a degree of mental fortitude that had surprised even him. Back aboard the _Enterprise_, he had been the one that the other members of the engineering crew generally expected to fall apart in the face of every crisis, despite his substantial technical skill. Had he been asked a month before if he could have suffered through near-constant firefights, captivity, torture, and deprivation with his sanity intact, Barclay would have evaded the question with a nervous laugh. And yet he had done it, managing even to avoid an excessive amount of self-pity in the effort.

Even so, as the engineer watched a Jiralhanae soldier swing the blackened muzzle of its grenade launcher in his direction, he felt a pang of regret at the fact that he had not indulged a bit more in hopeless weeping while in his confinement cell.

A blow to the legs knocked Barclay off of his feet, and he felt himself roll a meter away from the lower dais where he and his fellow captive Flitch had been forgotten with Teno 'Falanamee's arrival. A moment later, a booming noise and concussion swept over him, and he felt the back of his tattered uniform crackle and singe. The explosive projectile had impacted a far wall, but he was still badly shaken by the blast.

Disoriented, Barclay lay on his back for a few seconds, but the burning radiance of plasma bolts registered in his blurry vision an arm's length above him, and he forced himself into action. His head still swimming, the engineer rose onto his hands and knees and made for the closest cover he could perceive, one of the raised terminals that lined the sides of the chamber's nave. He crawled towards it unsteadily, trying unsuccessfully to block out the boom of nearby explosions and the screams of the wounded.

Something rubbed against one of his legs, and Barclay looked back to see an Unggoy in scuffed orange armor crawling along behind him. Another in identical garb was struggling to support the naked, half-conscious Sangheili that the Jiralhanae had deposited alongside Barclay and Flitch. Seeing the Covenant aliens following him sent a fresh spike of fear through the human, but he noticed that none of them were aiming weapons in his direction, or seemed to be armed at all. Barclay's eyes met with those of the closer Unggoy, and he suddenly realized that the creature must have been the thing that had just knocked him off of his feet.

The alien punched him in the leg with one of its bony fists and Barclay gulped, remembering that they were still out in the open. He started towards the relative safety of the terminal again, and soon was between it and the chamber's lower wall. The two Unggoy and the Sangheili tumbled after him, barely shielded from the spray of blue and red fire that washed against the other side of the obstruction in sporadic volleys. The Unggoy laid the larger being on the ground near Barclay's feet, and then looked nervously from the Sangheili to Barclay to each other. One barked something tentatively, and the pair moved to crouch at either side of the terminal, flinching at each near-miss.

Momentarily safe, Barclay forced himself to ignore the constant noise and movement all around them and thought back to the display of which he had been a part. His keepers aboard the carrier had never bothered to remove the small metal disk clipped inside the waist of his uniform, and although the universal translator occasionally flickered on and off from over-use and damage, it still worked well enough to give him an idea what the Prophets had been saying. The Sangheili was Deau 'Mefasee, who Barclay realized must have commanded the transport that he and the Arbiter had commandeered.

The Sangheili stirred and slowly turned its head towards him. She appraised Barclay carefully, her eyes keen even through the bruises that covered its long face. She attempted to sit up, but stopped immediately, grunted something pained, and fell back to the ground. One of the Unggoy looked over at its larger charge uneasily, but was drawn back to the battle by a roar and a new series of weapon's discharges.

"Are… are you all right?" Barclay stammered, holding the concealed translator as though willing it to work.

"I will live, human," 'Mefasee replied, and Barclay noticed that her tone lacked the derision and distain that most other of her species used when addressing him.

"Are these… um…" he continued, gesturing uncertainly towards the two Unggoy. "Do they serve you?"

"Better than I expected," she muttered, wincing as she placed a large hand over a small gash on her abdomen.

"Why did they…"

A shout sounded from just beyond the terminal, cutting Barclay off. There was a noise like boiling water and bending metal, and a Sangheili in blue armor fell within sight of their hiding place, its chest as mass of twisted plating and pulverized flesh. As life drained from the soldier, a heaving bellow rent the air and resounding footfalls pounded away from them.

"We must get to better cover," 'Mefasee panted, forcing herself onto one knee. "There. That recess in the wall." She nodded towards the large, darkened niche to the left of the High Prophet's dais. It was less than a dozen meters away and appeared to be vacant, but the path there was completely open, populated only by the occasional corpse or scattering of shrapnel.

"Cross that?" One of the Unggoy stared at her in disbelief. "We'd be splattered. Migaw and I couldn't make it on our own, and you and this thing are choicer targets. We don't even have any weapons!"

'Mefasee glared at him, and then leaned towards the fallen Sangheili. She wrenched a plasma rifle from his frozen grip and plucked a rounded, bluish orb from his belt. 'Mefasee placed the sidearm in her right hand and tossed the orb to Cakap.

"You know how to use a grenade?"

"Ah… of course!" The Unggoy fingered the device gingerly, obviously terrified even behind his breath mask.

Seemingly oblivious to her own injuries and exposure, 'Mefasee loped from cover first, crouched to keep her profile as small as possible and training her weapon in the direction of the heaviest fighting. Cajoled by the Sangheili's force of will and the heightening peril of their position, the other three leapt after her almost simultaneously. Barclay's longer legs made it easier for him to keep pace with 'Mefasee, but the Unggoy waddled along so furiously that they more than compensated for their squat statures.

The focus of the fighting seemed to have shifted more towards the center of the chamber, and the group of escapees crossed most of it without being noticed. 'Mefasee vanished into the shadowed haven first, and the Unggoy were quick to follow, each of them determinedly ignoring the bodies strewn across their path and the firefights close at hand. Barclay, however, was unable to completely block out the battle, and could not help but glance over his shoulder at a sudden uptick in the volume of the melee behind him. In the same moment his foot caught on the sprawled leg of a Jiralhanae shock trooper and he stumbled, only meters from the relative safety of the niche.

Barclay managed to prevent himself from falling flat on his face, but only just, and found himself on his side, lolled out near the Jiralhanae's limp weapon's arm. Overcome for a moment by the frantic beating of his heart, the human could do nothing but stare incredulously at the exposed crystalline spines of a Covenant needler rifle that lay discarded centimeters from his face. After a painfully long spell of helplessness, Barclay collected himself enough to push away from the ground.

Someone screamed nearby. The engineer recognized the sound immediately, even if the intonation of the voice was not entirely familiar to him. It was a human cry.

Barclay's eyes fell on Flitch, who lay upon his back not a dozen meters away, flush against the curving slope of the Prophet's dais. He appeared to have survived the on-going battle without any fresh injuries; Barclay guessed he must have found cover similar to their own in the confusion of the conflict's first blows. Something must have forced him from that hiding place, and a snarl made the cause of his flight was quite plain. A Jiralhanae of relatively small stature but impressive musculature was stalking towards the human, its eyes wide and crazed. Its pelt was covered in a patchwork of deep gashes and muddy blood, and it had lost its sidearms, but the beast and its kin were brutally strong, as the rent and broken bodies of Sangheili strewn across the chamber showed. An unarmored human would be effortless prey for the creature, especially in its pain-maddened state.

An image flashed into Barclay's head. A white hallway of the Alliance flagship. Dead stormtroopers crumpled around him. The Arbiter, wounded but triumphant. A single Imperial soldier, his blaster raised.

Barclay thrust his hand at the needler and wrapped his hand around its grip. It was of truly alien design, two metallic paddles covered in pinkish spines, centered on a rectangular muzzle, but its firing stud was positioned intuitively enough. He leveled the weapon at the approaching Jiralhanae, and then hesitated.

More images came. Flitch leading him at the point of a gun towards the _Republica_'s hangar. The Arbiter's face, scarred by the man's blaster bolt.

Barclay depressed the stud.

The weapon shuddered violently in his hands as it disgorged a stream of translucent, crystalline shards. Barclay's aim was poor, and a dozen of the projectiles spattered off the floor behind the charging Jiralhanae, splintering into colorful puffs of smoke. A credit to the weapon's designer, the rest of the shards compensated for their imprecise targeting, and zeroed in on the bulky simian. Guided by fundamental forces harnessed in a way that even Covenant engineers barely understood, the remaining barbs dug into the soldier's exposed flesh, shredding its hide from waist to neck. The creature stumbled, howling but still quite alive. It turned its head towards Barclay, its mouth slack in a gaping snarl, but before it could move further, the weapon's second unique function revealed itself. As one, the imbedded needler rounds glowed brightly and then exploded in bursts of plasmatic energy. The Jiralhanae was hurled backwards onto the floor, and was still.

Barclay stared at the dead soldier for a moment, remembering how the Imperial soldier had fallen the last time he had fired a weapon. He was numb, as he had been before, but feeling returned to him more quickly, and with it something else. Exhilaration. He had imposed his will upon another, destroyed a destroyer.

Or, perhaps, he had done the only thing he could, killed to save a life that might not even been worth saving. Barclay looked at the smoldering Jiralhanae corpse again, and the exhilaration evaporated. He allowed the spent needler to slip from his grasp.

Powerful hands closed about his shoulders and dragged him down. A moment later, a quartet of red plasma bolts lashed through the air above him.

"Move!"

With 'Mefasee's hiss came another sharp tug, and Barclay began to stumble backwards with her towards the dark recess. She let go, allowing Barclay to turn and run towards safety unimpeded. He peripherally noted the two Unggoy lifting Flitch to his feet and urging him onward, but he was too distracted to see the agent's right hand subtly brush over Cakap's hip as he was helped up. Even Cakap failed to notice that hand came away full.

The alcove was vacant and provided ample cover from errant gunfire. 'Mefasee lagged at the edge, making sure that the humans made it into cover, but the Unggoy immediately made for the closest access hatch, a narrow doorway imbedded in the curving base of the wall.

"It's locked!" Migaw groaned, pounding on door when it failed to open at his approach.

"Of course it's locked," Cakap replied. "It doesn't look like the Jiralhanae want any of us to get out of here alive. Now, shove over." He pushed past Migaw and started to inspect the frame. "Help me find the override circuit."

Barclay and Flitch slid down against the wall next to one another, taking advantage of the opportunity to catch their breaths. The engineer glanced at his fellow escapee, unsure of what he should say to the man he whose life he had just saved, the same man who had kidnapped him and pushed him close to death, and who he had shared interminable days of confinement with in uneasy silence. Sensing his gaze, Flitch looked towards the engineer. His mouth twitched, but he turned his head away again swiftly, still silent.

'Mefasee was still at the lip of the obscuring wall, peering outward. Barclay picked himself up and moved to join her. He only noticed as the field of battle came into view that the din of the conflict has died down. A few soldiers were still exchanging volleys from behind the seats and pillars of the upper balconies and the sounds of battle echoed unabated from beyond the gaping entryway, but the chamber's main floor was all but empty. Amidst the mangled forms of the dead and wounded, only two figures remained standing. Tartarus was the first, his now-bloodied hammer discarded on the floor nearby, locked in single combat with the other, one of the Lekgolo who had rushed to 'Falanamee's aid. His brother lay lifeless in a pool of orange ichor at the very center of the hall, armor riddled with hundreds of plasma burns and impact marks.

The remaining Lekgolo reared up before Tartarus, shadowing even the massive albino. It unleashed a thunderous boom from deep within its armored shell, and then brought both its arms down upon the Jiralhanae's head. Tartarus twisted sideways, avoiding the beast's shield arm. The other slammed down on his shoulder, but the Jiralhanae had already braced himself for it. He grabbed to the limb and its mounted gun, ablating its impact and confusing the rampant Lekgolo. The armored being could tear through combat vehicles like they were nothing, but Tartarus still managed to keep hold of its arm. He trembled as he began to push against the trunk-like limb, but a smile was obvious on his face between choked grunts.

Unable to crush its target one-armed, the Lekgolo leveled its shield at Tartarus again and jabbed it at him, intent on sheering through the Jiralhanae's tufted neck. Tartarus released his grip on his adversary's gun arm with one hand, using it to grab onto the underside of the shield and guide it away, but he kept his hold on the first arm with the other. The Lekgolo found the barrel of its fuel rod cannon aimed at its own broad chest, and its other arm pushed uselessly out behind the Jiralhanae.

It's armored-capped, eyeless head swiveled towards Tartarus' face, now just half a meter away. It regarded him for a moment, and then pulled its shield inwards, hoping to crush the Jiralhanae. The chieftain blew out a contemptuous breath in response, and shoved his fingers into the exposed fire controls of the Lekgolo's weapon.

A radiant jet of emerald fire burst from the cannon and washed over the titan's left shoulder. Thick plating bubbled and melted away under the onslaught, and orange filaments of sinuous flesh beneath evaporated into the conflagration. The initial force of the blast had blown Tartarus clear of the Lekgolo, and he watched as it collapsed backwards, the base of its left arm and much of its chest missing. For his part, the Jiralhanae's gleaming hair was badly singed, but he was otherwise intact, snarling grin and all.

Picking himself up, Tartarus turned his attention to a gold-armored figure propped against the far wall of the nave. Barclay realized immediately that it was the Arbiter, quite still, surrounded by the bodies of those who had died trying to protect him. A thrill of relief washed over the engineer when he saw the Sangheili raise his head slightly, but it vanished just as quickly. The Jiralhanae chieftain was approaching him slowly, cautiously, but his intent obvious.

"I overestimated you," he growled. "You humiliated me in the face of the Prophets. You shamed me when you barely had the strength left to stand!"

One of the soldiers fallen at 'Falanamee's feet, the major who had lead reinforcements into the chamber, stirred and attempted to rise, blocking Tartarus' path. The Jiralhanae kicked him aside contemptuously and continued towards his prey.

"But I see you as you really are once more. You are weak! An arrogant worm, just like the rest of your kind. Look about you, 'Falanamee. Look upon the faces of the creatures that died to save you. They died for nothing. They will not be remembered long by you, and if any of your people survive the Prophet's edict, these creatures will be known to them only as heretics and cowards. Disgrace and death is all that the Sangheili will know from this day!"

Tartarus stooped and lifted 'Falanamee off of the floor by his cracked chest plate. He hung limply as the Jiralhanae pulled his face close to the former Supreme Commander's own.

"And now it ends, heretic," the chieftain said with cool relish. "Your death is the will of the gods, and I am their instrument!"

'Falanamee's eyes flickered away for a moment.

"Tools should not talk so much."

With a yell, 'Mefasee charged from her hiding place. She aimed her plasma rifle at the brute as she ran and opened fire. Tartarus' eyes went wild for a moment, but he recovered from the surprise quickly. He turned to face the charging Sangheili and raised 'Falanamee's body in front of his own. She stopped shooting immediately, and her stride faltered. Tartarus barked a sharp laugh, and then flung 'Falanamee's immobile form at the female, lobbing him as easily as a sack of grain. The Sangheili hit one another hard, and both tumbled to the floor in a heap.

"Do you still think that I can be taken so easily?" Tartarus boomed. "I am Jiralhanae! I am greater than any of you! No warrior can match me! What force of arms could hope to bring me to my knees?"

There was a flash and a hiss at his feet. He looked down to see the major who he had kicked aside without a second thought. A lit plasma sword was now clutched in his hand.

Before the Jiralhanae could even utter a word, the blade scythed through his right leg just below the knee. Roaring with pain and rage, Tartarus fell to the floor on his other leg. He lashed out blindly, flattening the major once more and sending his weapon spinning away. Then the chieftain stared down at his right left, the end of which was now a smoking, bloody stump. He clutched at it howling, all else forgotten.

Tartarus barely noticed the lone, unarmored Sangheili limp forward, and place the muzzle of her rifle in his face. When he at last perceived the curved shape his voice failed him, and he looked up at the weapon's bearer. There was no pity there, no uncertainty. Nothing to exploit or bully. For the second time that day, Tartarus was completely powerless.

A dozen blue flashes came in quick succession, and then another dozen. 'Mefasee fired until her weapon began to glow hot and vent steam, and then let it fall from her blistered hand.

The clatter of metal on metal rose away into the steepled roof, and the chamber fell silent at last. On the seating platforms, councilors looked from their places of cover to see Jiralhanae slipping through newly unsealed doorways, their battle cries muted. The hatch that Cakap and Migaw had been probing unsuccessfully slid open of its own accord, but the two Unggoy had abandoned it, distracted by 'Mefasee's desperate charge. As the pair waddled cautiously from the recess, Barclay straightened up to follow, but before he could move more than a step, an arm wrapped tightly around his neck.

Barclay gagged against the hold and began to struggle, but another hand was thrust in front of his face, the blue orb of Cakap's grenade grasped firmly in its fingers.

"Quietly, now," Flitch whispered in his ear. "I hate to do this to you again, but I'd really rather not get reacquainted with your alien friends. Now, back towards that door. Not a sound. Let's just hope this goes better than the last time, for your sake and mine."

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"Supreme Commander?"

Teno 'Falanamee awoke with a start, and found himself staring up into 'Mefasee's concerned face. He tried to move, but pains from what seemed like every portion of his body quickly dissuaded him from the attempt.

"What has happened?" he managed slowly. "Where is Tartarus?"

"Dead," 'Mefasee replied.

Their eyes met, and 'Falanamee required no further explanation.

"And the rest? Where are the Prophets and their minions?"

"The Council chambers are secure for the moment, at least."

'Falanamee turned to see Galo 'Nefaaleme standing above him. The ship master's golden armor was streaked with plasma burns, but it still shone in the ethereal light. The look on his face was obscured from 'Falanamee's vantage point, but the officer's tone was softer than it had been the last time they had exchanged words.

"You…" 'Falanamee attempted to rise again, with the same pained result. As he fell back into 'Mefasee's arms, he noticed that much of his armor seemed to have been stripped away.

"Be careful, Excellency," the pilot admonished. She tore a length of material from a discard cloak she had wrapped herself in and proceeded to tie it around one of the deep gashes on the warrior's exposed side.

"Will he live?" 'Nefaaleme asked.

"We believe that he will, Ship Master. The Supreme Commander has strength beyond any that I have ever seen." This was from the red-armored major, who limped toward the small group over the debris-ridden floor, a sword hilt clasped proudly at his side. Following his progress, 'Falanamee realized that there were others assembled around them. Nearly a dozen Sangheili, councilors, soldiers, Honor Guard and support crew, stood around them in a loose circle. He caught sight of a handful of Unggoy as well, lurking between the Sangheili's legs. All were silent, staring intently, almost reverently.

Staring, 'Falanamee realized, at him.

"He still needs treatment," 'Mefasee said firmly. "And soon. He has lost a great deal of blood."

'Nefaaleme looked hard at the pilot and 'Falanamee thought he saw a hint of a sneer in his mandibles, but the expression passed quickly.

"We require safe passage to the landing platforms before we can leave this place," he replied at last, directing his words at 'Falanamee. "I led the cleansing of this tier myself, but the Jiralhanae still occupy most of the city, and we lack the numbers and the coordination to take it from them. Communications have been sporadic fighting broke out in the industrial districts."

A soldier passed through the encircling ranks, his helmet cradled respectfully under one arm.

"Here, one of my officers from the lower tiers. I will return shortly."

As the two soldiers drew aside and began to converse, 'Falanamee turned his head back to 'Mefasee.

"Are you hurt?"

"I have never felt better," she replied without hesitation. 'Falanamee could tell by the relaxed smile on her mandibles that she spoke with complete honesty.

"You did well," he said after stopping a moment to catch his breath. "Better than I could have expected, from any of our people."

"I was not alone. We would have both been killed were it not for 'Tahamee." She nodded at the major who had joined her at 'Falanamee's side. He offered the Supreme Commander a salute. "The Unggoy served admirably, as well. But you… you did what none of us could have done. You were right about the Prophets. You saved us all from them."

'Falanamee's split chin drooped. "The cost was too great. Wattinree need not have died, nor any of our warriors above this station. None of us may yet survive what I have done." He pushed himself upwards once more, and this time he found the strength to fight past the pain that welled up to meet him. "We must go. This station is not safe. Now, help me up."

'Mefasee and 'Tahamee each grabbed an arm and guided him to his feet. 'Falanamee steadied himself, and then glanced down at his chest, which was still partially covered by his torn bodysuit. He loosed an inaudible sigh of relief; the brand of his old heresy was still hidden. A time would come when he would not need to hide who he truly was and what he had been through from his people, but it was still too soon. He knew better than any that old prejudices did not die easily.

"What is the status of the ships in orbit?" he asked 'Nefaaleme when he returned a few moments later.

"Word has reached the armada of the Prophet's betrayal, and our ship masters have allied themselves with the Fleet of Particular Justice. Those commanded by the Jiralhanae are fleeing the system. The traitors Mercy and Regret are dead, slain by my own soldiers, but Truth has likely escaped the city. The fleet masters are divided on whether to pursue the vermin or to stay and defend High Charity.

'Falanamee nodded slowly.

"The blade-ships."

"Yes. The humans have closed to just outside lunar orbit, and they have begun to engage our outermost fleet elements. They may begin bombarding High Charity at any time."

"Who is in command of our forces?"

'Nefaaleme gestured at a pair of dark and ornately clad Sangheili watching them. "The High Council still holds authority, despite the Prophet's betrayal. However, communications disruptions here have made it difficult to connect those that still live with the fleet. The armada requires direction."

The two councilors whispered to one another, and then one stepped forward to address 'Falanamee. "Many of our brothers on the council are dead, and those who remain are scattered and embattled. We cannot rely upon consensus to guide us through this struggle. If you still have the strength, Supreme Commander, we will cede our authority to you for this fight. Your rank should never have been stripped, and you may claim it again in an instant. All you need do is command us."

'Falanamee looked from one councilor to the other, considering the offer carefully. Deep inside, he knew that he did not deserve the honor; he had brought the Empire down on the capitol of the Covenant, and killed thousands of his own people in the process. The only course he could advise now would likely mean the deaths of millions more. Looking at 'Nefaaleme, he could see in the ship masters eyes the vestiges of distrust. Bitterness and weariness that was more justified than the warrior could know.

But 'Nefaaleme would follow him, nonetheless. So would all the others assembled in the ruins of the council chamber. Justly or not, he was their hero. Their standard in a fight that could easily sweep them into oblivion. He was needed, and he could not let them down.

'Falanamee gently shrugged 'Tahamee and 'Mefasee off and stood at the center of the group as erect as his injuries would permit.

"High Charity must be abandoned if any of us are to fight another day. Ship Master 'Nefaaleme, have your soldiers spread the word throughout the city. Get as many of our people and those still loyal to us out before the blade-ships can block their escape. You and I must return to your ship and coordinate our withdrawal. The blade-ships cannot be repelled today, but if we can regroup, we will make our stand on our terms should they pursue us. Now, though, we have a Prophet to hunt."

A roar of approval met 'Falanamee's ears, and the Sangheili immediately began to prepare for the road back to the landing platforms, and space beyond. As warriors searched the battlefield for weapons and ammunition and moved to secure the chamber's exit corridors, 'Falanamee took in the chamber one last time. His eyes passed from the Prophet's dais to the bloodied rows of seats above, over Tartarus' bulk and discarded hammer. He lingered on Imperial Admiral Wattinree's crumpled form, and then turned back to those who still kept close to him.

The major was but a few paces away, keeping careful watch on the upper balconies with a pilfered carbine. Migaw and Cakap sat against one low wall, taking advantage of the lull to share a nutrient pack. And then there was 'Mefasee, still at his side. She looked agitated, far more than she had been a few minutes before. Another quick scan of the hall told him why.

"Where are the humans?" he asked her in a quite tone, careful not to let any of the others overhear them.

Her jaws tightened and slackened compulsively. "I do not know, Ship Master. We guided them to cover beyond the nave after the battle broke out, but I have not seen them since I…" She trailed off, glancing quickly at Tartarus and then back at the other Sangheili. "After the last Jiralhanae fled, I went back to look for them, but they were gone. I can only guess that they escaped through one of the access hatches. Cakap thinks that one of them stole a grenade from him before they left."

'Falanamee looked at the shadowy alcove from which 'Mefasee had emerged. There would be no point in searching it again, he knew. Barclay and Flitch were no doubt lost deep within the city's upper tiers now, ducking between firefights and ruined monuments. The Imperial spy was unchained, and Barclay was once again his hapless shield. It was the _Republica_ all over again, and this time the humans had been cast into an alien warzone which they would likely not escape.

"Come, Supreme Commander!" 'Nefaaleme called from an exit on the opposite side of the chamber, where most of the Sangheili cohort had already assembled. "It is past time to leave!"

He could still pursue Flitch, 'Falanamee considered. They might not have traveled far, and he knew High Charity better than either human. To let Barclay slip away was all but a death sentence and the Sangheili knew it. Had he come all this way, bled and killed so much, just to let the being he had charged himself to protect be killed by the foolishness of a xenophobic wretch?

'Mefasee gazed up at him uncertainly. He regarded her bruised and wearied face in silence, and then clasped an arm around her shoulders. There were things with which a single being could not compete or compare. Not even an Arbiter could deny them.

"Come on," he said with only a tinge of hesitation. "Help me after them."

'Tahamee moved quickly to take his other arm, and the three moved towards 'Nefaaleme and the others across the deserted battlefield, Cakap and Migaw in tow.

_You saved my life once, Reginald Bar__clay. Now you must save your own_


	48. Chapter Sixty Six

**Chapter Sixty Six**

"Mark."

In almost perfect unison, the angular forms of five Alliance starfighters slipped from the tachyonic realm of hyperspace into the cold reality of interplanetary vacuum. The squadron was composed of three X-Wings and a pair of A-Wings, each spaced several kilometers from the next in a wide ring. The formation was not particularly battle-worthy under normal circumstances, but it was fast and easily-overlooked, and that was what mattered.

The blackness onto which the ships intruded was an endless sea of bright stars, broken only by the impressive bulk of an orange gas giant that loomed several hundred thousand kilometers directly before them. Numbed to view beyond his X-Wing's transparent canopy by a hundred similar memories, the squadron leader and commander of the Republica's remaining fighter complement busied himself with his controls. After acclimating his vessel to the gas giant's gravity field and easing it into a stable orbit, he opened a line with the astromech unit mounted a few meters behind him on the fighter's hull.

"R2, what I'm reading from this planet matches the profile of the Sol system's fifth world you had transferred into the tactical core. Can you confirm our location?"

Bright-green text etched its way across one of the small displays next to the pilot's control yoke as R2-E9 replied in the affirmative.

"Good. I wasn't sure how the Fed charts would transfer into your systems. We jumped a little close for my tastes, especially for a dry run." Torn Addel was a cautious man. Though some of his comrades jibed him for it, he valued careful consideration far more than valor and bravado; he was still alive after a decade of fighting, and many of the "hot-shots" he had flown were not. Still, bitterness from the loss of the _Republica_ hung as heavily on him as it did on any who had called her home, and he had not protested his current duty, risky as it was.

He was silent for the next few minutes, carefully observing his X-Wing's passive sensor array for any sign of activity on his side of Jupiter. Tiny representations of 23 other small craft, his four squadmates and the four other formations of Alliance fighters that had arrived along with them appeared on his displays, spaced across the gas giant's imposing frame, but there was no other obvious movement or comm activity.

At last, Lt. Commander Addel flipped a switch on his interface, opening a low-power comm line to his command. Jupiter's bulk would prevent the signal from being overheard by unwelcome ears, at least for a time. Hopefully, they wouldn't have to wait long enough for that to happen.

"This is Green Leader. Squadron leaders, report."

"This is Blue Leader. We're all clear here. No contacts."

The first reply came from Lt. Kaam, who piloted the _Republica_ fighter wing's last B-Wing and commanded an assault unit of heavier, slower Y-Wings as an accompaniment to Addel's fast attack craft. Then each of the squad leaders repeated the message, as did each of his squadmates. There had been no problems with the transit. Hopefully, it was a sign of things to come.

"Alright, let's get started." Addel settled into his heavily-inclined seat and firmed his grip on his navigational yoke. "Initiate approach one. Keep your eyes open, and stay close in to the gravity well. We want to get a look at them and clear off before they even think about looking for us."

The Lt. Commander depressed his acceleration controls and his fighter began to towards the gas giant's gently-curving horizon. Little blazes of thrust pulsed around him, and his squadmates spread into a long, staggered line to his left and right. As they approached Jupiter, their formation adapted a slight curvature to match the planet's own. In the distance, each other squad formed a similar strand and angled towards the same horizon, their sublights lit with just enough energy to accelerate them through Jupiter's pull. As the gas giant's endless storms and roiling clouds rolled past beneath them, Addel's pilots kept their eyes on their long-range scopes, scanning for any sign of life.

A minute passed, and all Addel registered were Jupiter's tiny, barren moons. It was a member of Blue squadron, which was sweeping across the planet's southern hemisphere, who broke comm silence first.

"Green leader, we've got a contact. It just crossed the planetary perimeter." Lt. Kaam gave the anomaly's position and heading.

Addel's astromech immediately focused in on the area, just above the planet's southern pole.

"I see it," Addel replied, his voice calm.

The target was small and fast, moving just as quickly as his fighter. It was hugging the gas giant tightly, and it took R2-E9 several seconds to capture its silhouette and scan for any obvious emissions or transponder frequencies. As it did, the Lt. Commander weighed his options; it was unlikely that his fighters would be able to avoid notice for very long with a ship on their side of the planet. He could send out a scatter signal and hope that the contact failed to detected any of the Alliance craft before they were able to find cover in Jupiter's upper atmosphere or behind one of its ragtag collection of satellites, or he could engage and try to destroy it before it was able fire off an alert deeper into the system.

In the end, Addel was spared the choice.

"Hello, boys," a familiar voice crackled over his comm unit. "Fancy meeting all of you here." It was a broadband signal that hit the receiver of every fighter his side of the equatorial bulge almost at once.

Addel gritted his teeth. If the Zerg had anything within Jupiter's orbital perimeter, they'd probably pick up the transmission in short order.

"General Solo," he rumbled into his headset, keeping to a narrow-beam pulse. "I thought you were on recon in the system's asteroid belt. And please, sir, switch to a secure channel."

"I don't think it matters much now, Lt. Commander," Solo replied. The _Millennium Falcon_'s distinctive disk was now clearly etched on Addel's display. "I diverted to check on a distress signal from one of this planet's moons. We knew it'd probably be a trap so we kept our distance, but those bugs are smarter than I gave 'em credit for. A bunch burst from what I thought was an asteroid before we got into the lunar perimeter and gave the _Falcon_'s deflectors a few slaps before I got away."

Addel's irritation cooled and immediately began probing the space behind the approaching freighter once more. "How many hostiles, sir?"

Before the General could respond, one of his wing mates pulsed the squadron leader. "Sir, I've got at least thirty new contacts on my scopes. Same heading as the last."

The Alliance fightercraft, though small, were able strike craft even against Imperial targets. Armed and armored with the same technology as the _Republica_, they were a match for even the most advanced Starfleet warship. Still, they were vulnerable to concerted attack, and Addel wasn't eager to endanger any of his pilots until he had to.

"All squads, form on me," he ordered over his comm, abandoning the covert frequency. "Make for the insertion point."

Two dozen sets of maneuvering thrusters flared, and Addel's fighters executed hairpin, 180-degree turns, tearing them from their fight vectors and away from the ambush unit that was just registering on their sensors. The _Millennium Falcon_ surged up from the planet to join them, its ventral and dorsal guns swiveled back in anticipation.

"Shouldn't your fighters be engaging, Lt. Commander?" Solo asked over the comm. "The last I heard, it was your job to clear this orbital for the fleet."

"There's been a change of plans, General," Addel said as he began to feed a new set of jump coordinates to his R2 unit. He glanced out of a side pane of his cockpit's canopy as his fighter raced away from Jupiter's massive frame, searching for the distant star that was the system's primary.

"Admiral Nechayev decided to bring the fleet in hot."

--------------------------------------------

There was no great speech. No recitation of inspirational quotes and ancient platitudes. No conjuring of heroes of old wars and older victories. There had been oratory in previous battles of the war, cheers and battle cries. The prose did not carry the day, or even save their orators from destruction.

As the Allied fleet surged through space, captains sat in their wardrooms, reflecting on past campaigns and old commands. Old friends gathered together and shared stories of peaceful times. Soldiers cradled pictures of loved ones. Weary veterans stared out of dark viewports, remembering the fallen. Each spent those precious moments as they thought best. Each provided their own inspiration, their own will to fight.

No word or phrase could have done better.

-----------------------------------------------------

The _Enterprise_ and its task force were the first to drop from warp. Just outside lunar orbit, the ships were beyond the range of any of the stationary defenses that the _Millennium Falcon_ had picked up on during its long-range reconnaissance runs, but still inside its vanguard perimeter, a direct threat to Earth itself.

The planet that filled the _Enterprise_'s main viewscreen was not the Earth that Picard or any of his crew knew. By chance, the world's rotation had placed the European continent directly before them, its distinctive landmass and rough coastlines illuminated by Sol's bright light. Instinctively, Picard focused on France, where he had been born and lived throughout his childhood. Its wide, green plains, rolling mountain peaks, and spidery flecks of gray cityscape had been a part of him ever since he had seen Earth from orbit for the first time.

The long, winding outline of its coast remained, but nothing else was the same. Deep, black scars were etched across its face from the Mediterranean Sea to the English Channel, and their own once-vibrant blues were now dark and clouded. Where Paris and Marseilles had stood for thousands of years, only ragged blotches of ash were visible. Even the lands that had escaped immolation seemed dead, their native vegetation shriveled from green to dusky brown. What could be seen of Normandy and Languedoc beneath dark sheets of sickly, storm-laden clouds was splotched with lustrous black. The dull hue extended out in veins and wide flows, engulfing valleys and choking rivers wherever it had spread.

Picard's throat burned and clenched as the image washed over him, but the din of battle stations broke into his consciousness, and he pushed the dark mirror of his homeland from the front of his mind.

"Report, Lt. Hensley," the Captain ordered, his voice as calm as he could manage.

The woman who had replaced Worf at Tactical inspected her displays with a practiced eye. "The planetary perimeter fleet is moving to engage us. They should be in weapons range in twenty-five seconds."

Her voice quavered as she finished her report, with fear or anticipation Picard could not tell. Either way, he could not begrudge her the lapse. Still, he would have greatly preferred it if the words had been spoken in familiar Klingon baritone. The plan of attack drawn up back on Deep Space Nine had demanded that Worf be assigned elsewhere, and Picard had approved the transfer willingly, but he still wasn't used to his absense. This _Enterprise_ was a new ship with a different crew, and Picard still relished any ties with his old command that he could get. His brief glimpse of Earth had driven home just how distant peaceful days of diplomacy and exploration truly were. This was his hour of need, and yet so many of the friends and comrades who had stood alongside him then were gone.

But he remembered them, nonetheless.

"Show me," Picard ordered.

The viewscreen focused on a portion of space above Africa. A solid wall of starships filled the image, rough ranks and clusters of vessels that nearly blotted out the planet's ruined surface beyond. They were mostly Federation in design, but Klingon and Cardassian hulls were scattered throughout, their green and tan plating just as battered and ill-kept as the gray of the others. Several of the ships were missing entire decks and ran with their skeleton-like superstructures exposed; these were not ravaged by combat but torn from captured shipyards half-built, their habitation decks no longer required. The hulls of a handful of others were marred by corruption from within, livid growths that sprouted from structural seams and unused shuttle bays.

"The Zerg seem to be consolidating their equatorial line, Captain," Commander Data reported from the seat next to Picard. "Battle groups Betazed and Ferenginar have detected the concentrations of warships positioned at either pole moving towards the main group. Battle group Qo'nos has engaged the forces around Luna."

"And the fleets we bypassed at Io and Mars?" Picard asked.

"Still pursuing at maximum warp. They should close to combat range in thirty-one seconds."

Picard nodded. The Zerg attacking from Luna and out-system were General K'Nera and Fleet Admiral Nechayev's to deal with. It was his job to punch through the main enemy fleet, and he wasn't about to let Kerrigan's minions strike the first blow.

"Has the first wave closed within firing range?"

"Affirmative, sir," Lt. Hensley replied, steeling herself. The rest of the bridge drew in a collective breath.

Picard stared at his screen, eyes fixed on the pair of Galaxy-class starships now at its center, their phaser banks bright with building charge.

"Target the leaders. Quantum torpedoes, full spread."

Deep within the darkened battle bridge of the _USS Troy_, High Templar Tassadar stood alone, motionless. The starship's small, secondary command facility was almost as quiet as he was, still save for the low rumble of the warp core several decks below. Red combat lights lining the chamber's ceiling and walls and the flickering glow of portable viewscreens arrayed in a semicircle in front of the Protoss provided the only light. The two other beings in the room, Starfleet crewers manning comm stations behind the templar, nervously divided their attention between the screens, upon which the battle for Earth was quickly unfolding, and the silent alien, waiting for directives they could relay to the _Galaxy__-class_' primary bridge.

Tassadar could sense them in the back of his mind, and his glazed eyes perceived the real-time feeds from across the Allied fleet playing before him, but his recognition of both was little more than peripheral. The vast majority of his mental energy was focused on space itself, and the growing multitude of psionic energies flaring and flitting across it.

Tens of thousands of distant minds filled his consciousness, each a minute candle in the swirling dark. These sapients, humans, Klingons, Cardassians, Vulcans, Andorrans, and a dozen other species, transient things when perceived from the depths of Tassadar's trance. Compared to the unbending will and burgeoning psionic energy of Protoss warriors, they were almost imperceptible, but he could still feel them, if only barely. Their thoughts and emotions sang to him, interwoven as they were distant: hope, defiance, anger, fear. Their unity of their intent brightened each candle in the templar's mind's eye, and he drew as much strength from their warmth as he could.

Against this chorus was a different kind of unity, one that drained Tassadar of much of that warmth even as he turned his mind towards it. There were individual consciousnesses there, too, billions of them, but they did not sing with coherent thought of their own. Most were hollow and cold, animated only by motes of hunger, fear, and rage. Each faded ember was controlled by tendrils of intent, strings of the puppets that the Zerg were. And every string has its master, a nexus of inscrutable will and constrained emotion that poured its entire being into the manipulation of its countless limbs. Tassadar could perceive nine of these creatures, beacons of corruption that glowered at him from embattled space and the pained world beyond.

But even the combined taint of these nine could not distract Tassadar from the one that held their own strings. She sat upon the earth of a continent that had once harbored endless expanses of fertile savanna and baking sands. Now the land was cold and deformed, and a single malevolence was fixed at its heart, waiting. The Queen of Blades could hide herself from Tassadar's gaze if she wished, but now she made no attempt to disguise her power.

Kerrigan wanted him to come, and he was eager to oblige.

Drawing back from Kerrigan's consuming presence, Tassadar considered the forces arrayed around him. The Allied Fleet was divided into six battle groups, each of them named for homeworld lost to the Zerg. Battle group Vulcan was its lance, already heavily engaged with the forward Zerg echelon. Picard and the _Enterprise_ were at its head, and Tassadar focused briefly on a tactical display as his capital ship squadron tore through a cluster of corrupted Starfleet picket ships.

Groups Cardassia and Ferenginar flanked Vulcan, serving as support and ensuring that the main offensive line wouldn't be overwhelmed by the Swarm's superior numbers. At the moment, the Allied Fleet and Kerrigan's vanguard line were evenly matched in terms of ships, but Tassadar knew that would not last. She had reinforcements surging in from the Sol system's outer planets, fleets that the Allied commanders had been forced to bypass in order to draw main battle line at Earth's proverbial doorstep. In sum, there were a little over 300 Allied starships engaged. Kerrigan's home guard consisted half again that number, plus her orbital defenses and whatever else she was undoubtedly keeping from his notice.

Victory by simple force of arms was a virtual impossibility, and retreat was becoming more infeasible by the second. But there was still some small hope, and Tassadar needed Picard and the others to hold onto it as long as they could.

Nechayev and K'Nera commanded the rearguard and lunar flank respectively, Betazed and Qo'nos. They were already being beset by the superior numbers of Kerrigan's perimeter fleets, and the templar knew that they would not be able to hold out very long. A spasm of recognition flashed across his mind, and he perceived the arrival of the _Millennium Falcon_ and the Alliance fighter wing. Their firepower and skill would hold back the tide for a time, but they alone could not bring victory. That chance was lost with the _Republica_.

Finally, there was the battle group at the center of the Allied fleet, of which the _Troy_ was an integral part. It was smaller than the rest, composed mainly of older vessels and those that had seen too many refits; they were sturdy ships, but dependent upon the support of the more able vessels that encircled them. Fortunately, their role was not one of fleet combat. For now, all they had to do was move slowly forward as the _Enterprise_ and its fellows blazed them a trail. Battle Group Earth was waiting.

There was a resounding twang of psionic energy from deep within the Zerg front, and Tassadar knew that one of the Cerebrates imbedded within it had delivered a new order to its pawns. As it busied itself with the command, the high templar latched onto its psionic tendrils and followed them, reaching out for the mind at their core.

--------------------------------------------

The Cerebrate's telepathic command burst into the twisted thoughts of its enslaved crews and bloated ship-minds, and they complied with it without pause or question. Cargo doors and shuttlebays on dozens of ships throughout the Zerg crashed open, exposing their darkened bowels to hard vacuum. The abrupt decompression blew the cargo of those vessels that still retained atmosphere into space. Rather than emptying their holds, some especially damaged ships simply cracked open at their seams, bleeding disintegrating structural plate and ravaged corpses as their remains tumbled suicidally towards the Allied lines.

Each discharging vessel spilled dozens of fleshy globes into the void. Only a couple of meters in diameter and lacking any signs of electrical activity, most nearby Allied warships simply bypassed them, focused on the endless waves of Zerg combatants. A few more experienced captains, however, had seen the tactic before, and immediately ordered their batteries to destroy the drifting objects. Before the veterans could raise an alarm throughout the fleet, the orbs began to unfurl.

Scourges were of an old Zerg genetic stalk, a biological design that Kerrigan had inherited from the Swarm Overmind before her. Mottled gray ovals of hardened flesh, the creatures were monstrous embodiments of Zerg combat doctrine. Their open, toothy maws and bat-like atmospheric wings made them look almost comically out-of-place in interplanetary space, but once unfurled, they moved through the blackness with eerie speed, propelled by the raw willpower of their dark masters. The mindless things possessed no obvious weaponry, but those who had faced them before knew that the impression was deceptive; Scourges were weapons themselves, living missiles that did not stop until they buried themselves in the hull of an enemy vessel and ignited their own volatile innards. Each carried less destructive force than a Federation photon torpedo, but their velocity, accuracy, and numbers made up for what they lacked in power.

Thousands of the beasts took wing, flooding every theater of combat with shrill cries that deadened before they escaped their gaping jaws. Both forward and rear lines of the Allied formation were embroiled in chaotic close-range fighting, with Zerg warships closing within a few ship-lengths of their prey, and the Scourges dove between dueling vessels with suicidal abandon. Their targeting sensors and proximity alert grids confused by the volume of enemy fire and flash-cooled debris, most Allied warships were completely unprepared as the first wave of beasts fell upon them, dashing against perimeter shields and enflaming them with withering detonations.

Onboard the command ship of Battle Group Betazed, the _Versailles_, Fleet Admiral Nechayev watched as one of the _Akira-class_ gunships flanking her reeled from ten Scourge impacts to its port side. Its shields shattered and hull rife with quickly-widening breaches, it listed violently to starboard and began to tumble onto its side. The ship's warp nacelles flickered dangerously and then went dark.

The _Mitterland_'s captain had yell over warning klaxons on his bridge for Nechayev to hear him over their comm uplink. The main viewscreen didn't show the man's face; one of the impacts had knocked the gunship's visual capability offline.

"We've lost attitude control, Admiral, and I can't raise Engineering! My internal sensors hubs are offline, but I think most of my port sections are breached, and we might have lost the core, too! Power reserves are still up, but I'm not sure how long they'll last!"

"You're engines and your shields are gone, Captain," Nechayev said earnestly. "You can't do anything else for us now. Tell your crew to begin evacuation."

There was a burst of static on the line.

"Say again, Admiral! I couldn't…"

"Abandon ship!" she shouted. "Get yourself to an escape pod. Now!"

The captain hesitated, but only for a moment.

"Yes, sir."

The line went dead. Nechayev turned to Commander Slovach.

"Tell the _Magellan_ and her escorts to pick up as many of the _Mitterland_'s pods as they can. The _Versailles_ and the rest of my squadron will support."

Her second-in-command frowned. "Sir, if we pull those ships off the main line, the Zerg might be able to breach it."

"I'm not leaving those men to die, Commander," Nechayev growled, but the flash of dying Ferengi marauder little more than a kilometer before them gave her pause. She glanced back at the other woman and saw obvious consternation in her features.

"Tell them to grab as many survivors as they can in one pass, and then put them back on the line."

Slovach nodded and moved off towards a Comm station. Nechayev watched her go, clutched the sides of her command chair. Stopping for survivors in the middle of a firefight was an amateur maneuver, and the mistake had shaken her. The sight of Earth had been as hard on the Admiral as it had been on Picard; seeing her homeworld all but dead had made the months of fighting and loss seem pointless. Too many sacrifices, so much blood on her hands, all for naught. She hadn't let the strain show before, not like this, but it had been growing ever since her first attempt to retake Earth had failed disastrously. Despite the loss, Nechayev's reputation and the simple attrition of the war had given her command of all that remained of the Federation and its people. She was a capable leader, and had been for decades, but the burden of all those lives and the civilization they carried with them was a great one. Too great.

And now she had bet the hopes and futures of them all on a single gambit. The plan had been formed by others, but she had approved it, and if it failed, it would be end of everything she held dear. All would be lost on her account.

Nechayev closed her eyes. This _was_ the end. Either way, it would all be over soon. There was still one small hope, but whatever chance it had would be lost without her. She had to hold back the darkness just a little longer.

With a deep breath, she opened them again.

"What's the status of the rest of the fleet?" Nechayev demanded, rising from her chair.

"Vulcan is still advancing and the Zerg battle wall is starting to thin, but Cardassia and Ferenginar are taking heavy losses. There are reports of damage from Scourge attacks from across the fleet, especially on the lunar flank. General K'Nera is ordering his support ships closer to his heavier vessels to keep off the Scourges, but they've already lost two heavy cruisers."

Nechayev climbed from the bridge's main deck to join the reporting officer at his Tactical station. She could see from his display that her own battle group was holding, but the bulk of the Zerg perimeter fleets had yet to arrive, and if the Scourges continued harass her squadrons, the enemy reinforcements would overwhelm them.

"How many Scourges did the Zerg deploy?" she asked.

"It's difficult to be sure, sir. They're moving in and out of the Zerg formations very quickly, and the volume of debris in orbit is making them difficult to track. Judging by the number of ships that released them, I'd estimate at least twelve hundred."

More than a thousand homing missiles loose in the middle of the fray. Once targeted, several of the creatures could be destroyed with a single phaser burst, but they were supernaturally fast and their lack of obvious emissions made them difficult to localize. If left unchecked, the suicidal drones might gut the entire Allied fleet.

"K'Nera has the right idea," Nechayev said, more to herself than the crewman. She turned to Slovach, who was still at the communications hub.

"Commander, tell the squadron leaders to consolidate their formations. Advise that they adopt intercept configuration Beta."

It was a basic maneuver: the heavier ships of a squadron would pull behind the rest, and the forward ships would put up a phaser screen to intercept any incoming projectiles. The more powerful ships could then target enemy capital ships with their heavier weapons without having to divert any of their onboard resources to point defense. The configuration was an old one, considered somewhat obsolete before the arrival of the Zerg due to the lack of fightercraft and missileboats in the arsenals of most Alpha and Beta Quadrant powers, but it worked well all the same.

With the threat of the Scourges momentarily contained, Nechayev turned her attention back to the rear front of the Allied fleet. The ten capital ship squadrons of Betazed, some 50 vessels in total, were arrayed in three-tier wall configuration. The hexagon formed by the forward seven took the brunt of the enemy assault, while the other three squadrons provided support where it was needed. The wall had effectively repelled the first push of Zerg ships from Mars with only moderate losses, but the enemy fleet was reforming for another assault, and the second perimeter group from Io was beginning to drop out of warp to reinforce them.

A quick diagnostic of her battle group indicated that Nechayev's own squadron was one of the most combat effective at her disposal, despite the loss of the _Mitterland_. As the reinforcing Zerg fleet swelled and accelerated through realspace towards her battle wall, Nechayev had the commander of a badly-beaten squadron of older _Miranda_ and _Excelsior_-class vessels fall back to one of the supporting positions and moved her own group to the front.

As the sleeker but no-less scarred hulls of her_ Akira_-class escorts exchanged places with the century-old hulls, the first crimson phaser beams and paired disruptor pulses slashed from the refreshed Zerg fleet. The return volley was delayed and far less multitudinous, but painfully accurate and calculated; each captain knew that they had to make each of their shots count twice that of their foes.

"Show me the core of their fleet," Admiral Nechayev commanded, settling tentatively back into her seat.

The viewscreen winked to a wide starfield. The dozens of warships arrayed across it in tight knots and staggered lines were tiny but nevertheless distinguishable from the distant stellar formations that backed them, especially when one fired a torpedo or energy pulse at the Allied line. The deceptively-irregular wall of commandeered machinery flared with waves of flashes and glimmers as squadrons of ships unloaded their batteries and accepted incoming munitions with spherical energy shields.

Zerg-infested warships at the head of the throng were soon within effective weapons range of her wall, and Nechayev and her crew were distracted with their own group of belligerents when ships at the rear of the attacking force began to break from their assault trajectories and focus their weapons away from the battle line.

"Admiral, two Zerg ships in sector 19-F just lost warp containment!" Nechayev's tactical officer reported excitedly. "They're detonating."

The flag officer didn't bother asking whether or not it was one of her squadrons that had delivered the killing blows.

"It's about time. Comm, see if you can raise the _Millennium Falcon_."

A few moments later, Han Solo's confident voice burst into the _Versailles_'s bridge. "Sorry we're late, Admiral. We tried to avoid some old friends around Jupiter, but they couldn't get enough of us."

Even through the ship's universal translator, the Corellian's gruff accent and cocky tone were enough to raise Nechayev's eyebrows and bring the ghost of a smile to her lips. The outcome of this battle had just as much impact on him as it did any Starfleet or Klingon crewman, but Solo still managed to maintain the air of hot-shot rookie on his first patrol.

"General, we need to make a breakthrough planet-side, and Vulcan is being stalled mid-orbit." Nechayev consulted a tactical display, which indicated that the Allied front was now all but stalemated by the Zerg line. "I need your fighters to create a fracture that they can push against. Once you're through, soften up the orbital defenses and cover Earth as it makes it approach. Vulcan, Cardassia, and Ferenginar can handle Kerrigan's armada if you give them leverage, but they're losing ships more quickly than they can sustain."

It was true. The three forward groups had already suffered 30 attrition, and although they had taken even greater casualties, the Zerg weren't showing any signs of giving way.

"We'll give Picard the punch he needs, Admiral," Solo said without hesitation. As if to add emphasis to his point, a hulking, Klingon-made battlecruiser at the center of the Zerg fleet erupted into a cloud of super-heated gas and debris, victim to one of the _Millennium Falcon_'s formidable concussion missiles. As the surrounding vessels scattered, the freighter barreled through the rapidly-expanding cloud, followed closely by the cadre of Alliance fightercraft.

There was a throaty bellow over the comm-line.

"I see 'em, Chewie," Han Solo grumbled to his copilot. "Get on the dorsal gun. I don't want these things getting anywhere out hull, and I trust you a lot more with the quads than the guys we've got in there now."

A flock of Scourges had descended upon the Alliance formation from the midst of the Zerg fleet, and the creatures were mobbing the _Millennium Falcon _and the lead X-Wings and A-Wings. The quad laser cannons mounted to the top and bottom of Solo's ships sprung to life, pivoting on their mounts as they belched blazing death into the swarm and triggered waves of premature detonations. Careful fire from the other Alliance ships quickly cleared off the rest and they surged away from the remnants of the flock, barely singed but increasingly wary.

"Do you want me to lend you a couple of squadrons, Admiral?" the general asked as his ships approached the Allied rear line. "It looks like you could use them, especially if there are many more of those damned things hanging around."

Nechayev considered Solo's offer. The Alliance fighters were faster and more maneuverable than any ship in her arsenal, and they easily matched the durability and firepower of her own flagship. A dozen of the small vessels would bolster her line by a substantial margin. K'Nera's embattled forces, too, might benefit from the presence of the squadrons.

But the admiral's hesitation was brief. She knew what theirpriorities had to be.

"No, General. I want all of you on the front. We'll hold them here as best we can without your support. Besides, the trail you blazed through their ranks has bought some more time, I think. With any luck, you hit the fleet's cerebrate. If not… well, we will manage. Just get us that breakthrough, and soon."

Nechayev could picture Solo's grin. "May the Force be with you, Admiral."

"Good hunting, General," she replied.

With that, Nechayev raised a hand to order the comm officer to cut the line, but stopped herself, remembering a brief meeting she had had with Leia Organa before the Allied Fleet had left her on Deep Space Nine. The Alliance councilor had been eager to join them, but Nechayev and the other members of the Council had decided it was too much of a risk. Despite her combat experience and willingness to face the dangers of battle first-hand, she played no part in their plan of attack, and it was quite likely that any ship she was attached to would be lost in the fighting, if any survived at all.

Still, Nechayev was quite sure that Leia would have found her way into battle had the _Millennium Falcon_ not departed before the rest of the fleet. Indeed, she was fairly certain that was one of the reasons why Solo had been so eager to take on the preliminary scouting mission.

"Oh, and General Solo."

"Yes, Admiral?"

"Councilor Organa sends her regards."

There was a pause. "Thank you, Admiral."

-----------------------------------------------

Lt. Commander Addel's squadrons burst into the heart of the Earth-ward fray with such ferocity and speed that the Zerg line lost ten ships before it was even able to target the new attackers. Functioning in tight squadrons that exploited their maneuverability and small profiles, the faster X-Wing and A-Wing squadrons dove into thickets of Zerg warships, weaving in and out and wreaking havoc not with blinding sprays of laser fire and torpedoes that cracked shielding with frightening efficiency. The first waves of return-fire sowed even more destruction throughout the ranks of the defenders as the darting vessels flew into the shadow of nearby corrupted warships, allowing them to absorb photon torpedoes and errant phaser fire. The other fighters hung back with the Allied line, but their heavier weapons increased the effectiveness of Battle Group Vulcan's bombardment enormously.

Addel and a wingmate angled at a _Galaxy_-class that was attempting to evade the capital ship's renewed onslaught. It lobbed a photon torpedo at them, but their powerful engines carried them past it before it detonated. Not missing a beat, its enslaved crew targeted a stutter-pattern of phaser blasts at Addel's X-Wing, now scant kilometers away. Most went wide, but one impacted his deflectors directly. His instruments fluctuated widely as blinding light almost overcame his canopy's photo-reactive cells, and R2-unit shrieked so loudly that Addel could feel the vibration through the back of his seat.

The Alliance pilot gritted his teeth against the receding glare. Through dazzled eyes, he could just make out his deflector gauge: the phaser blast had pushed the fighter's defenses to their limit, but the ship was still intact.

Rechecking and adjusting his firing vectors as quickly as he could, Addel depressed the firing stubs he held under both thumbs. The quartet of laser cannons affixed to each of his fighter's four wings spat crimson bolts of energy at the saucer-section of the offending vessel. Simultaneously, his wingman, who had bracketed the _Galaxy_, unleashed his own volley of fire. The assault flared the ship's bubble shield into nothingness, and the fighter pair strafed its length, burning away huge chunks of armor plating and structural components with each hit. As they flew away, the Zerg ship was already tumbling dead through space, its hull venting charred biomass and frozen coolant from dozens of breaches.

"Are you alright, Lt. Commander?" his wingman asked as they maneuvered momentarily above the main plane of combat.

"The deflector took most of it," Addel replied, checking his instruments to confirm that his ship was indeed still in fighting shape. "Watch those phaser projectors. They're more accurate with them than they've been before."

"It must be the coordinators, those cerebrates," the other man said as they executed a 90-degree turn back towards the battle line. "Command said there would probably be a few deployed here."

"More than a few," Addel mumbled to himself. The Zerg were fighting far more effectively than the pilot had ever witnessed before. Rather than relying simply on suicide tactics and their overwhelming numbers, formations and individual ships were executing complicated maneuvers attack patterns. Even their gunners seemed to have acquired additional skill, as his still-cooling hull clearly showed.

But even this web of willpower had been unable to stop a breach from forming in the defensive line. It was a small gap, large enough for only a handful of ships to maneuver through comfortably, but the Allied fleet pounced upon it immediately. Most of the Alliance fightercraft poured through it in single mass, their sights set on the armed orbital facilities and weapons platforms Kerrigan had left intact above the planet's surface. The crossfire was intense, and two fighters succumbed to the sheer volume of destructive energy laid against them during the transit, but the rest made it through largely unscathed. Before Kerrigan's armada could seal the fissure, all that remained of Vulcan focused on the area, a solid cone of ships and withering firepower.

Occupied with yet another flock of Scourges, the _Millennium Falcon_ was the last Alliance vessel to the breach, and was forced to weave through a concentration of Allied vessels to rejoin the battle. As it skirted the head of the pressing cone, the _Enterprise_ opened a line to the freighter.

"Captain?" Han Solo prompted, his voice now more curt and serious. The first Alliance loses of the battle had not escaped his notice.

"General Solo, Zerg resistance has been more effective than we anticipated." Picard also sounded strained. "My battle group will be able to open a path to Earth, but casualties are severe, and I'm not certain how long we'll be able to hold this position."

"We're giving this all we've got, Picard," Solo replied. "Addel's fighters are tied up with the inner perimeter, and the _Falcon_ can only be in so many places at once. There are too many Zerg contacts, and I don't have the guns to take them all. Maybe if you could give me a ship worth hitting…"

"Yes, I know. The cerebrates. I just received a target profile from Group Earth. Tassadar thinks he's located one of the main coordinators of the enemy fleet."

A combat tag and a set of coordinates flashed into the _Falcon_'s computer. Solo looked them over quickly, and then turned his sensor towards the designated area. It was a patch of space below the main grid of combatants, occupied by a thick knot of warships. There were enough of them to pose a formidable threat, but not so much to warrant special notice. His tactical display matched the transmitted tag with a relatively small, sleek vessel at the center of the formation.

"That's quite a nest of trouble, Picard. Think you can soften it up a bit?"

"Negative, General. I need all of my ships focused on that breach. You'll have to handle them alone." The captain's tone softened momentarily. "Well, not quite alone. I suggest you take a look at the cerebrate's squadron again. Picard out."

Han stared at his silent comm-unit for a long moment, taken-aback.

"Hell of a time to be so damned cryptic," he muttered at last, turning his attention back to the simplified sensor display. "No wonder they were losing so badly before we showed up."

The Corellian was about to make another comment or two to himself when he noticed that the cerebrate's vanguard was beginning to drift apart. There was no obvious threat to the group, and yet its component ships were slowly moving out of formation, as if engaging in prolonged, clumsy evasive maneuvers. Han stared at the scene in puzzlement for a while, unable to comprehend why the ships were scattering. A few even looked as they were sizing each up as potential threats. It was as though something was interfering with their sensors and communications systems.

Then Han remembered how the cohesion of the Zerg forces had collapsed after the death of the cerebrate at Bajor. Tassadar had tracked that mind, too, but it had been destroyed almost as soon as it was located. He had had little time to do anything but mark its presence. What if the Protoss templar's abilities weren't limited to perceiving the Zerg consciousnesses? Simple perception certainly hadn't saved him from Darth Vader during the rout of Sullust.

Whatever the cause, Picard's meaning was now clear enough, and there was an opening the General couldn't refuse.

"Chewie, get back up here!" he called over his shoulder towards the gun well where the Wookiee copilot waited, and then took the ship into a sharp dive, straight for the disoriented and unsuspecting cerebrate.

Behind the _Millennium Falcon_, new etchings of lethal light and blinding conflagrations marked the blackness as the Allied fleet pressed forward with redoubled force. Earth was in reach, and the Allied stratagem was about to take shape.

------------------------------------------

Through the eyes of her servants, Kerrigan watched as the sixth battle group began to pour through the gap under a torrent of cover fire from the Allied front. As the ships approached Earth's thermosphere, she settled back into a black throne, a thin smile on her stained lips.


	49. Chapter Sixty Seven

**Chapter Sixty Seven**

The flight from the High Council Chamber had been quick and breathless. Numbed by the vicious melee from which he had barely escaped, Barclay was caught completely off-guard by Flitch's bold bid for freedom. The grenade shoved beneath his chin had shaken Barclay enough for the Imperial agent to move him forcibly into the chamber's network of claustrophobic ancillary passages, away from the victorious Sangheili. Barclay had quickly realized that his single, newly-rekindled hope for salvation was ebbing away as Flitch dragged him aimlessly down deserted corridors, but before he could mount the resolve to disregard the explosive and resist his kidnapper, the man pocketed the plasma grenade in favor of a blue-cased pistol pillaged from the fresh corpse of an Unggoy guard draped across their path. With a firearm at his throat and the threat of prowling soldiers through every doorway, Barclay could do nothing but wait and follow.

He didn't have to wait long. Hurrying from the long corridor into a small chamber with a closed doorway on each wall, Flitch considered quickly and then tugged his captive towards the door straight ahead. It slid open smoothly at their approach, revealing an enclosed hall almost identical to the one they had just left. It, however, was not vacant: a single Jiralhanae stood in their path, its blackened hands clutching a long, jagged blade. Its scanty, plated uniform and scraggly fur were coated with a mingling of purple Sangheili blood and its own dark ichor. Turning from a mangled lump at its feet, presumably the soldier that had stained its coat, the alien's eyes narrowed the humans and it raised its weapon, seemingly oblivious to the gun in Flitch's hand.

Flitch stumbled back through the doorway, one arm still wrapped around Barclay's neck as he brought his pistol to bear on the new threat with his other. The blood-maddened Jiralhanae stalked after them, and as it crossed the threshold, the human opened fire. The green pulse hit it on the side of the neck, burning away fur and charring the leathery skin beneath. The warrior brought its free hand up to the wound and unleashed a resounding bellow of anger and pain, but it did not stop or fall. Flitch did not fire off another shot until it was almost on top of them, but the quick burst was better aimed than his last. An animalistic roar still on its lips, the beast toppled down upon its prey, its right eye boiled neatly away.

The Jiralhanae's bulk knocked them both into the curving wall of the intersection, and Flitch's hold on Barclay faltered. In an instant, the engineer had freed himself of the arm and was scrabbling away over the Covenant soldier's massive corpse. Not so easily caught unawares, Flitch grabbed hold of one of the man's ankles and held him fast as he tried to free his pistol from beneath a limp, muscular arm. Desperately, Barclay kicked with his free leg and, more by luck than intent, planted his heel on Flitch's nose. The man shouted angrily, but the shock of the blow allowed Barclay to shake free and make for the nearest doorway.

Barely keeping his balance as he tore through the opening, Barclay pelted back down a new corridor, his head swimming feverishly. As he rounded the first bend, he hoped fleetingly that the Imperial would forget him and flee down a different path, but before he could even slow to catch his breath, there was the muffled sound of heavy boots and unintelligible shouting from behind, followed immediately by lighter, faster footfalls closer at hand. Biting his lip, Barclay bent back into a full run.

He knew he had to get back to the Arbiter. That was his only chance. Even if Flitch didn't kill him, then Barclay was still trapped in a hostile, alien construct, a universe away from any other friend or ally. Worse, the strife of the council chamber seemed to be spreading, and Barclay had no desire to be caught in the middle of a civil war. Again.

Conscious of the man a hallway behind, Barclay attempted to double back towards the corridor down which he had been forced. He saw no identifying markings or landmarks he could recognize, and so was forced to simply barreled through doorways and down short passages almost at random, hoping that his vague sense of where the main chamber had been would guide him. The web of halls was mercifully vacant, but sounds of conflict echoing from down side ways and recent burn marks on the polished walls kept him on edge. And still, footsteps clattered after him.

Barclay ran as hard as he could manage, longer than he had ever done before. With each new corridor and door, he searched for some familiar marking that would lead him back to the council chamber, but found only curving, alien walls and endless rows of alcoves and recessed ornaments. Once or twice, he saw the flash of a plasma discharge out of the corner of his eye, or heard an enraged battle cry, but he kept on past, certain that death awaited as surely from behind as it did in front. Each strange hall or brush with combat heightened the fear bubbling inside of him, and drove him on faster, but he could only keep up the pace for so long. He was no athlete, and weeks of confinement had done nothing to strengthen him.

Seeing what looked like an empty meeting room, dark save for a slit of hazy light that ran high along its back wall, Barclay ducked inside, his heart pounding dangerously. He search desperately for some control that might seal the door, and laid eyes upon a holographic pad adjacent the entryway with a caricature of an alien hand emblazoned upon it. Without thinking, he slapped the control, and a thin barrier of carved metal slid from the wall to close the gap. Barclay slumped against the wall, greedily sucking in air. When his lungs were full again, he fell silent, listening intently for any sound from the corridor beyond. Flitch's light, deliberate footfalls were discernable almost immediately, and Barclay felt his heart race again. He cast about the dim room for a weapon or alternate means of escape, but it was empty save for a high, long table that filled its center.

Barclay pressed against the wall, his eyes locked on the closed door. As the footsteps came to the door, he balled his fists, suddenly determined to rush the other man as he came in. He would try to wrest the pistol from him, and then…

The steps sounded from just beyond the door and continued on without slowing. Barclay was motionless until the thumping echoes faded away, and then loosed a long, weary sigh.

Calmer, the engineer surveyed his surroundings more carefully. The room was as barren as it had seemed before: a table, a few of what might have been inactive holographic projectors mounted in each corner, and the strip of light the lined the top of the far wall. The final feature attracted his notice, and he slowly crossed the small chamber to inspect it more closely. Rather than a light fixture, as he had at first suspected, the thin band seemed to be venting hazy in illumination from somewhere else. Closer observation revealed vertical lines running down from either end of the strip: another door, slightly ajar.

As Barclay absently ran a finger down one of the fine slits, considering his next move, a new sound broke the room's tense silence. His hair stood on end and he turned sharply towards the other door, but what he heard were not footsteps, and did not emanate from the corridor.

Voices. Distant and muffled, wafting in from the small gap above him. Something about the remote speakers caught Barclay's notice, and he listened more closely. They were crisp and harsh, and quickly faded into the soft, airy echoing that also emerged through the crack. He couldn't understand the words, but the tone was shockingly familiar. It was not the gruff, throaty vocalization of the Sangheili, or the savage growl of the Jiralhanae.

It was human.

The fact dawned on Barclay quickly, and barely believing it, he pressed up closer to the gap, straining for another distant sound. No voices emerged from the soft blanket of echoing wind he could now discern, but there was something else. The faint clip of boots on metal plate.

Joy and desperation mingled in Barclay's mind, clouding caution and compelling him to act. He managed to restrain himself from pounding on the barrier and crying out, but immediately began searching for a way of opening the wide door further. It didn't take him long to locate another pad like the one that had sealed the entryway, and he placed his palm on it without hesitation, his heart pounding.

The barrier moved in response, but to his horror, it rushed upwards, sealing the gap and throwing Barclay into darkness. Not knowing what else to do, he slammed the control again, and with a creak the wall section reversed, sliding down. Its progress this time was far rougher, and it slammed to a halt with a loud, pneumatic wheeze, nearly a meter of the opening left blocked. Barclay cringed at the sound, but he rushed to the new exit, and barely stopping to look beyond, clambered out.

He found himself in a narrow passageway, formed by the intersection of the edifice of the complex he had just exited and a darkly-covered slab of metal that arched from a point several meters above him to the polished floor. The slab blocked his view, but it wasn't wide, and gave way a few meters to either side of him. Looking down, he could see that a large portion of the door and the surrounding wall was burned and distorted, no doubt the cause of its obstruction. He also noted that the sound of wind was far more obvious now, and the dusky illumination of the space gave Barclay the odd impression that he was outside.

Moving quietly to the right and peering around the obstruction, he realized why. Packed at the center of a dozen towering soldiers, Barclay had noticed little of his surroundings on the trip from the Covenant carrier's transport to the council chamber, but now he fervently wished he had made more of an effort. Beyond the narrow tiered ledge upon which he stood, the vastness of High Charity stretched out before him.

Beneath the boundless sky of a dome and the ocean of white light that was its crowning star, a metropolis unlike any Barclay had ever seen sprawled outward in a great circle. Its mountainous skyscrapers emerged from a low sea gray fog, minute fingers of substance from his lofty vantage point, high upon a perimeter tower that dwarfed all the rest. Only one structure stood higher: a great silver monolith at the city's center, rising up like the arm of a crystalline star.

In his time aboard the _Enterprise_, Barclay had seen the marvels of ancient, long-lost civilizations and been in the presence of beings of power and knowledge he could barely comprehend, and yet the great tower before him filled him with awe unlike any he had felt before. Lit by a cascade of ethereal radiance from the artificial star above, the imposing, outstretched pylons and delicate etchings of the monumental construct momentarily banished fear and desperation from his mind. For some reason beyond his comprehension, the tower reminded him of home.

The moment was short-lived. Movement and the flare of energy discharges in the air around the four mountainous pylons at the structure's base pulled him back to reality. If the fighting had already spread so far, Barclay knew that no hiding place, especially not one so close to the epicenter of the violence, would be safe for long. Now that he could really appreciate the scale of the place, Barclay knew that there were probably billions of aliens on around him, each one a very real threat.

He scanned the narrow ledge of ornate metal that separated him from the kilometers-long drop to the city below. The platform stretched put hundreds of meters in either direction, hugging the curving inner wall of the massive city-structure. Off to the right beyond the long balcony, a great, polished column emerged from the perimeter barrier, and high on it Barclay could see an ornate, well-lit jut of metal that stretched out towards another tower, smaller and free-standing. He could just barely make out movement on each. As he looked on, the tiny form of a transport surged away from the inner platform, drawing a few ill-aimed lines of fire from the other tower as it sped off into the mist.

There was activity closer at hand, as well. Below Barclay's sheltered vantage point, a set of smaller platforms jutted into the air like piers, each tipped with a rhythmically-blinking guide light. The one closest to him was empty, but he could see two others, each connected to the upper walkway on which he was standing by a broad flight of steps.

The platform immediately to Barclay's right drew his notice first. It was dominated by a single, landed ship. A gray, rectangular box with a sloped cockpit and a pair of thin wings that were folded up alongside an angular, skyward fin, the vessel looked startlingly out of place on its sculpted, slightly lustrous dock. Moving closer, Barclay could see humanoid figures gathered around a docking ramp under its forward section, and others picking through what looked like the crashed remains of another Covenant transport on the farthest platform. All were clad from head to foot in obscuring white armor.

Barclay didn't immediately recognize the ship, but the sight of the Imperial stormtroopers around it brought realization crashing down on him.

Suddenly, he remembered the exchange in the council chamber that had preceded its decent into chaos. The Sangheili who had dueled the Arbiter had mentioned the arrival of 'human blade-ships'; he hadn't made the connection before, but now it seemed obvious. Imperial ships had followed the _Republica_ through the rift, and he had seen first-hand the aftermath of their battle with the Covenant armada.

_Idiot!_

Barclay stumbled back beneath the overhang. He could see a squad of Imperial soldiers making their way from the far platform towards the upper walkway. He had felt their pitiless, armored hands before. He remembered his short time on an Imperial Star Destroyer well, pressed into a tomb-like confinement. His escape from whatever had befallen the rest of the _Enterprise_'s crew had been simple providence, fortune he could not count on again. Going to them only meant more captivity and hopeless isolation. At that moment, braving the embattled alien metropolis suddenly seemed like the preferable option.

Barclay had backed almost to the obstructed door when he heard the thud of boots on the floor behind him. He spun about, only to feel the butt of plasma pistol crash down onto the side of his neck. He fell sideways into the overhang with a loud groan. Instinctively, he lashed out both hands, but a sharp knee to his stomach knocked the wind out of his lungs and he collapsed into a fetal position on the ground.

Gasping for air, he looked up at his attacker. Flitch stared back at him icily, his nose a bloody, crumpled mess. The man had his weapon aimed at Barclay's face. The pistol began to hum, and a ball of bright green light accumulated on its projection node. The prone man squinted against the glare and attempted get up, but another harsh kick put a stop to the effort.

"Even after all the trouble you caused me," Flitch hissed slowly. "Even after all of this. That damned aliened. That cell. This blasted place. All of that, and I still didn't kill you when I had the chance. I dragged you along with me when I should have just shot you and been done with it."

He shook his head, sneering.

"I guess I was thanking you for saving me back there. I was soft. But you were stupid. Too stupid to let me die when you had the chance, and stupid enough run when you could have tried to killed me. I'm not about to give you a third chance."

"I never wanted to kill you," Barclay said, his voice breaking. See saw the malice in Flitch's eyes, and what resolve he had left melted away. "I just want to get home."

A short laugh. "Well then. Consider this a parting present. A gift for my nose and this lovely trip."

Flitch's finger tightened on the pistol's firing stud, and the green globe on its end swelled into a blinding fire. Barclay felt the heat of the weapon, and could barely see Flitch beyond its light. As the whine of the building charge reached a crescendo, he drew a deep breath.

_One more bit of pain._

Barclay knew the voice, timid and acquiescent. It was part of who he was. Born of an introverted, cautious life aboard the _Enterprise_, it had stayed with him over all the trials since the passage through the anomaly. It had been there when he had escaped the Imperial warship, and when he had saved the Arbiter's life on _Home One_. It had whispered resignation when Flitch had first abducted him and throughout the long days of confinement aboard the Covenant carrier. It had even been present during his most recent escapes, lurking as he rescued the Imperial agent and then subverted his betrayal.

Time and time again, he had managed to suppress the voice and the paralyzing fear that it heralded. But now, as he finally looked upon death's face, it pushed through his resolve and compelled him to quietly accept his fate? Were his last thoughts to be ones of silent submission?

The idea filled him with revulsion.

A chorus of clicking and the rustle of movement sounded above the hum of plasma. Flitch swung around to face the source of the noise, switching targets as he did. Barclay opened his eyes, and through the residual glare of the weapon, he saw Flitch's eyes widen with surprise.

In an instant, the engineer took the scene in. The primed gun. The blinding light of the plasma charge. Flitch's momentary disorientation. Barclay knew what he had to do.

He braced himself against the overhang and swept at Flitch's legs with his own. The impact caught the man completely by surprise, and as he struggled to maintain his balance, his finger slipped from the trigger of the pistol. The globe of green energy lashed out, straight towards the unexpected arrivals.

Flitch didn't even have time to lower his gun. A salvo of crimson blaster bolts tore into him, incinerating unprotected flesh and blasting what remained into the half-opened door. The spent pistol clattered to the floor next to Barclay's head. Motionless, he watched it lose its residual heat to the smoke-laden air as the stormtroopers Flitch had seen cautiously approached. Their footfalls stopped short of the overhang.

"Human," a stormtrooper said aloud over his helmet speaker.

"What the hell?"

"There's the weapon. A damned fool, whoever he was."

A pair of armored legs crossed into Barclay's station frame of view, and their owner squatted down next what was left of Flitch.

"What was he doing here?" the soldier mused.

"What were _they_ doing here?" another corrected. "Check the other one."

The crouching soldier turned to Barclay. The engineer looked up into the opaque eyes of his helmet.

"This one's alive! Help me!"

Barclay repeated the soldier's words in his head.

_Still alive._

As plated gloves closed on his arms, he fully appreciated the truth of the statement. Against all odds, he had survived. And, just maybe, he would continue on a little longer. Perhaps fate was finally done toying with him, and if not, well, he wasn't particularly inclined to believe in fate anyways.

Hoisted onto his feet, Reginald Barclay barely noticed that no little voice bubbled up to resist his new-found resolve.

-------------------------------------------------------

Captain Meterin Coloth was in a poor mood. Though he had never voiced any complaint, the officers busy at their bridge stations around him knew the source of his ill-humor quite well.

"Sir." Coloth's chief tactical officer approached him, his voice respectfully low. "The last remnants of the enemy fleet have engaged their FTL drives and are fleeing the system. The _Dominance_ and the _Crucible_ are requesting permission to pursue."

The captain shook his head.

"Request denied," he said, his characteristic frown deepening. "Lord Vader wants all ships to hold here until the boarding teams have finished their reconnaissance of the construct."

The two fleet officers shared a surreptitious towards the bank of viewports at the head of the Imperial Star Destroyer _Torrent_'s bridge. There, draped as ever in his heavy, black cape, the helmeted form of Darth Vader stared silently at the bulbous shape of the alien space station and the planet beyond.

It had been more than two long weeks since the _Torrent_, along with eight other star destroyers and a small fleet of support ships, had crossed through the rift that connected Imperial space with an uncharted and previously unknown galaxy, teeming with hostile aliens. Coloth had been given command of the expeditionary force, a special commission given by Lord Vader himself, in spite of his relatively low rank and recently marred record. Most of his peers would have been thrilled by the opportunity, but Coloth had always been content with the command of a single ship; he disliked the oversight and inter-ship politics that inevitably came with higher rank.

Moreover, little of the campaign he was now part of sat well with him. First, the galaxy Vader had taken them to was so distant from their native cluster that it didn't correspond to any Imperial galactic table or star chart. For all Coloth knew, they weren't even in the same universe; from what little the captain remembered from his dimensional physics course at the Academy, the wormhole they had traversed could have easily torn them from their own reality. The forces stationed near the rift's exeunt kept close watch on the phenomenon and constantly transmitted assurances of its stability, but Coloth still disliked the idea that he could be trapped so far from home if something went wrong.

There was also the matter of their objective in the new stellar realm. Darth Vader had never been exactly clear as to why he had requisitioned a fleet to go through the rift, especially with the Empire as it was after the Emperor's assassination. The Sith Lord had alluded to a couple of possibilities for their deployment: there was the Rebel cruiser that had escaped through the anomaly, and then the necessary retaliation for the attack on Imperial warships that had pursued the fleeing terrorist vessel into the alien's territory.

Neither explanation made much sense, however. Reports from the ships that had initially pursued the Rebel ship indicated that it had disappeared into the anomaly again soon after its first transit, and only a small portion of the task force's resources had been bent towards the analysis of the rift. The majority of the fleet had been bent to the task of hunting down and destroying the alien fleets and facilities that continued to resist the expeditionary force despite their massive technological inferiority. The beings were tenacious and unrepentant, and all attempts to communicate with them had failed, but the campaign against them was still massive overkill by Coloth's standards. It was almost as though they were fighting the aliens simply for the sake of fighting them.

In any event, neither objective demanded the direct oversight of the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Starfleet and de facto ruler of the Galactic Empire.

That brought the matter to Vader himself. Naturally, the Dark Lord had attached himself to the _Torrent_ after elevating her captain, and he had spent nearly all the time since the beginning of the campaign on her bridge, staring into the blackness of space or hovering over Coloth as he conducted everything from combat operations to simple shipboard affairs. Deep down, the captain was still convinced that Vader was punishing him for his failure with the captured Federation ship.

That was not to say that the Sith did nothing but observe the battles he initiated. Indeed, on several occasions, he had taken his personal starfighter into battle against the aliens, or command soldiers on the ground. It had been him, against Coloth's recommendation, who had lead the strike force that captured several alien leaders and thus secured the location of their capital, just hours before.

Since his return, however, Darth Vader had brooded in silence before the _Torrent_'s viewports, content to let Coloth conduct the approach and seizure of the alien super structure without oversight. He had been unimpressed by the unexplained civil strife that had made their approach even easier than it would otherwise have been. Even when orbit around the construct had been achieved, he broke his silence only long enough order the alien capital boarded. After Coloth had dispatched several battalions of stormtroopers to survey the evacuating structure and secure any points of interest, Vader had turned back to silent contemplation.

For once, Coloth was free to conduct his command as he saw fit, and yet Vader's brooding made him as uncomfortable as he had ever been.

As he waited for the insertion force to make its next report, the captain drew an after-action report from the battle that had won them the location of the alien capital, which was named High Charity according to the intelligence agents and translators who had interrogated a group of high-level bureaucrats seized at its conclusion. Like every other engagement of the brief campaign, the losses were vastly one-sided: well over one hundred alien capital ships destroyed to three on the Imperial side. Even so, it had been an unusually costly battle. On more than one occasion, Coloth had routed an entire planetary defense fleet without more than a handful of Imperial casualties.

He pulled up a representation of the vessel that had commanded the defenders during the last battle. It was a truly impressive ship, more than half a dozen times the length of the _Torrent_ and many times the mass. Even considering its overly-aesthetic design – Coloth thought it looked more like a pleasure submarine than a warship – it should have totally outclassed any Imperial ship short of a star dreadnaught. And yet, he had seen ships of its class fall to a single star destroyer with minimal effort.

The aliens fought with cunning and, failing that, suicidal ferocity. They had an armada that might very well match the scale of the active Imperial Starfleet; squadrons of probe droids and extensive scouting efforts had only begun to gauge the scope of their empire. The very existence of the artificial world beyond the _Torrent_'s prow indicated that their civilization was both vast and ancient. And yet, simple statistics put their entire empire at the mercy of Coloth's relatively tiny force.

Weapons yields. Deflector absorption capacities. FTL velocities. Coloth was too seasoned an officer to look unkindly on any combat advantage, but winning a war because of mere technological disparity still didn't appeal to his sensibilities. He was eager to be done with the affair, accomplish whatever Vader wanted accomplished, and return home.

When another officer approached to notify him that the colonel insertion force was ready to make a progress report, he quickly directed the man to patch the army officer through to one of the holographic projectors at the rear of the bridge. He could have easily delegated the task, but Coloth was eager for distraction.

The projection alcove the captain had chosen linked with a troop transport landed deep within High Charity and produced the image of a middle-aged, prim-looking man in the gray of an army officer. Colonel Madora, attached to the _Crucible_, was a capable man, and had overseen the handful of planet-bound actions that Lord Vader had deemed necessary. More than any high-ranking officer deployed with the Dark Lord's expeditionary force, Madora was in a position of challenge and danger. The technological disparity between the Empire and its foe was not nearly so great on the ground.

"Captain Coloth," the colonel said, saluting.

"Colonel," the Captain replied. "What's the condition of your regiment?"

"Our landing and command points have been secured, and we haven't faced any concerted attempt to repel or eliminate our transports. The intelligence you provided on the location of the alien's leadership corresponds to several towers on the perimeter of the construct's main chamber, and my men have successfully secured it. However, it was largely abandoned by the time they locked it down. We did take a few prisoners, and my techs are attempting a central information node or processing center as we speak."

"Most of the remaining activity on the construct is focused on a tower structure in center of the internal city. Fighting around its base is intense, and most of the alien's remaining aerial assets are focused on defending it. Fortunately, factions within their ranks seem determined to keep each other from occupying it, and I've managed to insert a few platoons into its upper sections through the confusion. My fighter squadrons and gunships are engaging the alien defenders, and it should be secure enough to reinforce within the hour."

Coloth offered a short nod.

"Good. Have you identified any other areas heavy activity?"

"Yes, sir. There's fighting all over the construct, and there are masses of non-combatants funneling towards the docking pylon at its base. Intel has also located what appear to be a network of computer nodes and energy exchanges, but occupying them with my current forces will be difficult. I'm continuing recon operations, but my regiment is stretched thin as it is. You've received scans of the city, sir?"

"Yes, colonel, I have."

The images Coloth had seen reminded him distinctly of Coruscant. Even with its inhabitants trying to kill one another, resting control of a city like High Charity, much less the rest of the construct, would require more than the combined marine and army corps of the entire expeditionary force. To make matters worse, Coloth wasn't even sure what his soldiers were supposed to be doing there.

And as Vader's silence lengthened, the captain was beginning to wonder if the Sith Lord knew himself.

"Have your troops hold position. Consolidate your hold on the administrative towers and the central structure, and collect as much intelligence on the city and its inhabitants as you can. I'd like to know why these things suddenly started killing each other, and I'm sure my analyst would be happy with any other data you could provide on them. You will be transmitted further orders as soon as they are given."

"Yes, sir." Madora shifted noticeably. "There is one other matter that may interest you, Captain. While establishing a landing zone near the administrative complex, one of my forward squads encountered a pair of humans."

"Humans?"

"Yes, sir. One of them fired on the squad and was killed, but the other is uninjured and in our custody."

This was something Coloth had not expected. There was evidence of human habitation in the system that the anomaly opened into, but the aliens had been in the process of eliminating all traces of it when the first Imperial ships had arrived. A few probe droids had been dispatched to investigate the possibility of intact human worlds, but so far their search had been fruitless. Certainly, no member of the species had been sighted on any of the worlds Coloth had conquered.

"Have you been able to gather any information from him?"

"Not yet, sir. He had indicated that he was a prisoner of some sort, and that he escaped when the internal violence here began, but beyond that, he has been resistant to questioning. Unlike his companion, he was unarmed, but he was carrying this."

Madora held up a palm-sized, metallic disk.

"My ship's protocol droid seems to think it's a translation device of some sort. I haven't seen any of the aliens equipped with anything like it."

Coloth, on the other hand, recognized the universal translator immediately.

"The _Enterprise_," he breathed.

A shadow fell over the captain, and the hairs on the back stood on end.

"Lord Vader?"

The Sith Lord was standing directly behind Coloth. Turning to face him, Coloth wondered how he could have missed the approach of Vader's rasping, rhythmic breath.

"What have they found?" he demanded without prelude.

"My lord, one of the boarding detachments has located a human onboard the alien construct. He appears to have been carrying a device similar to ones used by the captives the _Torrent_ took on several weeks ago."

"The _Enterprise_?"

"Yes, my lord."

Darth Vader was silent for a moment save for the unceasing hiss of his artificial breath.

"Bring him here."

"At once, Lord Vader."

"When he arrives, have him escorted to my chambers."

With that, the Sith stalked off the bridge. When his long cape had vanished behind a bulkhead, Coloth allowed himself a small sigh. He had hoped to never see a Federation crewman after he had unloaded the _Enterprise_'s remaining crew on Imperial Intelligence. They had been nothing but trouble for him, and Coloth suspected that bringing another back onboard would do little facilitate the return of his old, orderly life.

------------------------------------------------------

Lord Vader's spartan quarters were only one deck below the _Torrent_'s bridge. Hastily constructed after he had moved his flag from the dry-docked _Executor_, the single, circular room was virtually identical to his old dwelling.

Its only defining feature was the black-plated meditation cubicle at its center. Within the atmospherically-controlled chamber, Vader was granted a brief respite from his life-sustaining armor, and he spent the scant hours he wasn't prowling the _Torrent_'s command decks sealed inside, contemplating the turmoil that roiled beneath his dark mask.

Now, though, as he waited for the Federation captive to be transported from High Charity, the meditation chamber sat open and empty. Its master stood behind it, his attention focused on the only other fixture in the room, a small worktable fixed to the back wall.

Amidst a scattering of tools and spare parts, the badly blackened and fractured husk of an astromech droid lay in pieces on the tabletop. Fragments of its scored and uselessly melted chassis lay in a neat stack to one side of the work area. A few carefully removed utility arms bearing an assortment of hydrospanners and electrical jacks were assembled in a row next to a box of new components and mechanical parts. The only recognizable part of the droid, its squat, blue and white head section, sat at the center of the area. The dome had been repaired and cleaned with a steady and practiced hand, but the sensory bulbs that ringed it were as empty and lifeless as the rest of its scattered body.

As he had done a dozen times before, Darth Vader gently lifted the small copula up and turned it over in his gauntlet hands. He gazed down at its dominant, glassy visual sensor, its protruding holographic projection tube, each input slot and access panel. All were familiar to the Dark Lord, wrenchingly personal in a way that few other living beings could understand.

This was all that remained of R2-D2. This was the droid that had accompanied him on his first adventures, when he was just a small boy, freed from slavery for a place in the Jedi Order. This was the droid that had belonged to the woman who would be his wife, her belated wedding gift to him, and a companion through the trials of the Clone Wars. This was the droid that had found his way to Vader's only son, and had tried to save Luke from his father's blade. For that valiant act, Vader had destroyed him. He had obliterated his old friend in anger, barely giving the act a second thought. The little droid had not been the first such victim.

Vader turned the dome over, revealing a terrain of exposed electronics and delicate machinery. This was familiar terrain; a place the Dark Lord could lose himself. He picked up a soldering tool, and set to work.

Yet again, Vader's hopes had come to nothing. The campaign against the alien civilization his fleet had found beyond the rift had failed to clear his mind of the specters that haunted it, or focus him for the daunting challenges that awaited him back in Imperial territory. For a time, commanding ships and soldiers in battle had distracted him from the ghosts that intruded upon his meditations, but the respite had been short-lived. Even returning to the cockpit of a starfighter had failed to drive away the shadows. The thrill of battle was muted, and no threat the aliens could pose had sparked emotion in him. No exhilaration, no anger, no fear. Compared to the terrors within his mask, fierce warriors and massed battle fleets were pale and transient.

No matter what he did, unheralded memories and repressed images came to him. Voices of the dead vied with the living, and more than once he had fallen silent during a consult with his subordinates and left for solitude without explanation, unable to discern what was real and what was not.

The last few days had been the worst. In place of the specters of slain friends and broken vows, two phantoms had begun to appear more and more frequently, swelling until they alone haunted him night and day.

The first was the face of his son. When the image came, Luke was as he had last seen him, clouded and cold, on the verge of an abyss that Darth Vader himself had created. This shadow was not a new one, but now as he looked on, his son's eyes would open, but there would be nothing beneath their lids. Just a bottomless, inescapable void.

Then the second terror would come. From the silence, cackling. It was a laugh both humorless and terrible, muffled by great distance, but still potent enough to drive Vader to distraction, no matter how hard he fought to drive it from his mind.

Vader did not know what had brought on these new ghosts, or what they meant. He had meditated upon them for hours to no avail. He had even gone so far as to suppress the baser instincts of his Sith training in favor of the centering calm of half-forgotten Jedi mantras and focusing exercises, but the root of his new distress still eluded him.

And so he worked.

Vader had located an inactive R2 unit almost identical to his old companion; its headless frame stood next to the worktable, ready to accept a new droid brain. He had spent many long hours hunched over R2-D2's processor carriage, cleaning and reassembling carbonized circuit nodes, replacing overloaded capacitors, and rewiring conductive filaments. Indeed, all that was left to be done was the installation a few key power transfer couplings and attachment the dome to its new chassis, but Vader continued to tinker and fine-tune.

He was reluctant to finish, for more than one reason.

An unseen comm unit pinged, and Darth Vader delicately laid the polished dome back on the table. With a flourish of his cape, he turned towards the room's only door and manipulated its controls with a thought.

The gunmetal barrier slid away, and a pair of stormtroopers escorted an unimpressive man in a badly worn uniform into the room. One advanced and handed Vader the small metal disk that had been the captive's only possession. Vader offered the soldier a slight nod, and men retreated without a word.

"You are a member of the _Enterprise_'s crew."

It was a statement, not a question. The Sith Lord had known beyond a doubt as soon as the man had entered the room. There was something about his presence in the Force, a variance that could not be mistaken.

"What is your name?"

Vader could sense a great deal of fear in the man, and none of the force of will that he had felt during his brief meeting with the man's captain.

"I'm Barclay… Lieutenant Reginald Barclay of the United Federation of Planets. And you… you must be Darth Vader."

Vader was mildly surprised. There was an air of defiance in the response that he had not expected from what appeared to be a weak and tired man.

"You know of me?"

"Yes. Yes, I've heard of you, and what you can do. You're a telepath. Why even bother asking me questions?"

Vader ignored the comment. "You know there is no point in resisting me. Good."

He touched Barclay's mind, and a series of images flowed from him. One, a bald, stern man was immediately recognizable.

"Where is Captain Picard?"

The man grimaced, although Vader could not tell exactly why.

"I don't know. The last I saw the Captain, he was on an Alliance ship, the _Republica_. I was separated from it."

He had to mean the Rebel vessel that had vanished through the spatial anomaly. His interest piqued, Vader probed deeper into Barclay's mind, but he had difficulty seeing any deeper than immediate thoughts. Frustrated, he advanced, pushing harder, and the other man winced, bringing his hand to his forehead.

The effort only jumbled his perception further. He could only see a few dim images, and a few snippets of memory that erratically flowed into one another or faded without resolution. Either the man was stronger-willed than he had at first estimated, or his own focus was slipping. Unnerved by the prospect of such a weakness, he pushed still harder, and Barclay cried out in pain, falling to his knees.

Abruptly, Vader pulled back from the man's mind. At last, he had found something. A fragment a memory, lacking context, but crystal clear. A young, dark-haired man. A name: Jacen Solo.

He seemed familiar, even though Vader could not place the name or the face.

"Who is Jacen Solo?"

Barclay looked up at his interrogator, one hand still clasped to his brow.

"The _Enterprise_ found him. Transporter accident. He… he said he was a Jedi. From your universe, I think. He was with the captain."

Darth Vader stared at Barclay, motionless. This new figure meant something to him, but he could not understand what. Through the Force he could perceive layers of meaning compounded upon the man, but something was stopping him from comprehending them. As he racked his brain, the ghostly laugh emerged suddenly from a drift of thought, and his marrow froze.

Vader turned away from Barclay.

"I will question you again later."

With a wave of his hand, the door opened, and the waiting guards entered.

"Take him to the detention block. And ensure that I am not disturbed."

When the others had gone, the Dark Lord resumed his work on R2-D2 immediately, barely aware of his surroundings as he picked up a waiting transfer coupling. His hands attached circuits and aligned power components swiftly and mechanically, working with a mind of their own, a mind untroubled by decades of war, betrayal, and darkness. The sum of Vader's attention was focused on the young man he had seen in Barclay's mind, and another within his armor was set free. He didn't realize it when the last components had been installed and failed to notice reserve power begin to hum through the droid's processor core. His legs and arms moved unbidden, positioning him before the incomplete R2 unit, and then placing the refurbished dome atop it. Magnetic clamps automatically locked it into place, and sparks flashed behind the droid's polarized lenses.

Vader stepped back from the machine, suddenly conscious of his work. The completed droid hummed to life with the faint sounds of motivators and servomotors. Its head pivoted 180 degrees to the right and then to the left, and its holographic projector gave a few tentative twitches. A low whistle sounded from somewhere inside it, and the cylindrical body tilted back on its short legs. A third, wheeled foot emerged from a compartment at its base, and it inched forward along the smooth floor, turning right and left, and then backing into its original position. For the effort, it emitted a triumphant hoot.

R2-D2 was alive again.

Darth Vader reached out for the dome of his old friend, and the droid spun its sensory eye towards him, suddenly aware of movement. When it registered the towering form of the armored cyborg, R2-D2 squealed in surprise and put itself into reverse. Immediately, it slammed into the chambers wall and bounced back, head section twitching with fright and confusion.

The machine's distress confirmed the quality of Vader's labor. It still retained memory of its last active moments; naturally, it would be alarmed by his presence.

Slowly, Vader laid a glove on R2's chassis, provoking another flurry of nervous spasms and pivots. A panel on the droids side popped open and an arc welder emerged, aimed at the Sith's chest. The device jerked as the astromech attempted to activate it, only to find that some of its internal power supplies were not aligned. Vader had retained a healthy respect for the unit's tenacity, and was pleased to see that that his precaution remained warranted.

Carefully, he pushed the panel closed, and held the droid tightly until it stopped tugging away.

"I won't hurt you, R2."

The words emerged slowly, strangled by uncertainty. He tried to sound gentle, reassuring, and found that he barely remembered how. He had had no occasion or desire to be either for more than two decades.

R2-D2's primary sensor turned to face him, and it loosed an uncertain whistle.

"Don't you recognize me?"

Vader saw the reflection of his nightmarish mask in the droid's unblinking eye.

_No. I suppose you wouldn't._

R2 chirped a few times, and then whistled again, questioningly this time. Vader understood immediately: _Where is my master?_

"Luke isn't here. He's on Coruscant. I can bring you to him, but…"

The man trailed off.

_Coruscant…_

The fabric of the Force around him shuddered, and realization came. A hundred levels of understanding rushed in, and beyond them, the same resonance in the Force, uniting it all, leading… back.

Jacen Solo. The secret that Vader had sensed Aayla keeping from him during her training. _He_ was the Jedi that Palpatine had sensed, so long ago.

_Palpatine… The Dark Side…_

The specters that had been haunting his every moment fell upon Vader, and blossomed into further understanding. He could barely comprehend the torrent of knowledge, connections he should have made, feelings he should have recognized…

And all of it led back to the Imperial Center. All of it led back to Aayla. All of it led back to his son.

_Luke! _

Vader leapt from R2 and spun towards his mediation chamber. He had been such a fool! Blinded by ambition and arrogance! Hot fury bubbled within his chest, but he ignored it, trying to focus on what had to be done. There was so little time!

He jabbed at a control panel within the chamber, and a far wall flickered to life with an image of the _Torrent_'s bridge. Captain Coloth moved into view, but Darth Vader cut him off before he could speak.

He was going back. Coruscant was waiting.


	50. Chapter Sixty Eight

**Chapter Sixty Eight**

With eyes that were not their own, six minds watched as the fissure in the Zerg defensive line in orbit widened and Allied warships began to pour through. One, the greatest of them, was content to observe as dozens of Starfleet and Klingon hulls plunged into Earth's gravity well, plowing through the crossfire from the array of armed satellites and space stations hanging in low orbit. The lesser five, however, did not have the same luxury. Each earthbound Cerebrate was rallying its mindless hordes from their brood caverns and noxious holes, ready to deploy them anywhere on the ruined globe at a moment's notice.

All of Kerrigan's Cerebrates were bred to think of themselves as their Queen's favorite lieutenant – burdening powerful and valuable tools such as they with jealous compunction would not do – but of them all, the being named Boil had the greatest claim on the title. Positioned within the Queen's own citadel, the pulsing mound of flesh and psionic essence was the principal commander of Kerrigan's elite guard. A pair of other Cerebrates kilometers away boosted the level of coordination he could impose on his subordinates and were tasked with the defense of their own sectors, but he was the prime mover. With his consciousness bent to the task of securing the Queen of Blades and her fortress, the entire continent around him became a single, mighty rampart, manned by a host of the finest Zerg genetic stock.

When the defensive platforms above began to disintegrate under the assault of two dozen tiny fightercraft, the invader's greatest weapons, Boil was unconcerned. He was eager for the pitiful creatures to intrude further. He wished for nothing more than a chance to serve.

The breakthrough had taken a heavy toll on the Allied formation, but two dozen ships had managed to penetrate Earth's innermost orbital perimeter. The collection of heavily-battered vessels was focused on the quickly-growing landscape below them, pumping its energy reserves into shields that glowed brightly as they absorbed the heat and resistance of rapid atmospheric entry. It was obvious that large-scale bombardment was not on the mind of the approaching commander; his objective was landfall.

Boil was eager to see the frail beings that would disgorge from the ships meet the claws and teeth of his vanguards, but duty to his Queen prompted him to make the first move. An organic engine of war, Boil was only dimly aware of the perverted humor behind his given name, but he was instinctually compelled to seize tactical opportunity when it presented itself.

A chain of thoughts spread from the Cerebrate, passing through hardened rock and stone and worked its way into the minds of billions of lesser creatures. It was both rallying cry and coordinating impulse: Boil had concluded that the entirety of the approaching force was focused on the lands surrounding the Queen's fortress. Half a globe away, warrens emptied. Zerg spawn poured into waiting, living transports, and the giant sacs of gas and flesh rose into the air, obscene flocks converging upon the expanse of desert and corrupted wilderness Kerrigan had made her home. Nearer spawning complexes excreted an even greater volume of ravening minions, and they stampeded over land-fouling creep and through lifeless soil, compelled forward by the Cerebrate's alarm.

The impending reinforcements were a necessary usage of available forces, but Boil was confident that they would be unneeded. Overlords, lesser coordinating minds that served as field commanders of sorts, conduits of a Cerebrate's will, were scattered across the lands surrounding the fortress. The psionic fields they generated had the side-effect of disrupting the matter-energy transporters the beings that had once thrived on Earth used so much. Boil had seen the havoc this wreaked amongst the human ranks first hand in his infancy, during the disastrous evacuation sparked by the Queen's emergence. Now, the devices would not be able to deploy soldiers, either, so the invaders would be forced to land their vessels.

That gave Boil the chance to slaughter the interlopers before a single one could set foot on the planet's surface.

The first Allied ships crossed into stratosphere hurtling over a blackened ocean for a few moments before they reached the western tip of the continent they called Africa. As soon as they did, hill-sized cysts bulging from the dark slime that covered the coastal areas exploded violently. Amidst fountains of gore, the organic constructs unleashed Boil's first line of defense: thousands of Scourges like those still harassing the fleet in orbit. The flying beasts surged after the hurtling artificial forms, toothy maws clacking excitedly.

Weakened by the breakneck descent and the preceding battle, the first Allied ships were no match for the suicidal attackers. Under the precision guidance of one of Boil's adjunct Cerebrates, the Scourges found their targets within seconds, bashing through failing shields and biting deeply into taxed hull plating. Half a dozen of the invaders simply disintegrated in mid-air or spun out, their maneuvering jets disabled. Now easy targets, the wounded ships were torn apart by other massive growths that dotted the landscape, ones which lobbed explosively-corrosive spores into their hulls as they passed overhead.

The remaining Allied vessels were scattered, staggered out across half of the continent, but they pressed on, and Boil set about bringing them down one by one. Perhaps, he reflected with a tinge of regret and disgust, the pitiful creatures wouldn't require a single pack of Zerglings to dispose of.

Then something wrenched at his mind. It was a feeling unlike any he had felt in his short life. Another Cerebrate was crying out for aid. His brother was… afraid.

He switched the breadth of his attention towards the other, located a few hundred kilometers north of the Queen's citadel. Almost as old as him, Welt was tasked primarily with overseeing the region's air forces, the Scourges and other Zerg minions gifted with flight. Boil reached out, communing with the Cerebrate, and received a few flashed of thought. Explosions rocking the earth. Zerg flesh burning. The small, angular forms of starfighters surging through the lower atmosphere, their weapons alight.

Then, a scream, and silence.

Confused by the sudden absence of the other's thoughts, Boil pulled back, commandeering the eyes of an Overlord positioned near the living complex that sheltered Welt. The image he was presented was distorted and shaky, and he could barely force the creature to turn towards the site of his brother's post. Nevertheless, he perceived the organic construct, or rather the patch of desert where it had once lain. A column of black smoke rose from a deep scar in the land, and nothing else moved within Boil's frame of vision. The bone shell of the other Cerebrate and the rooted creatures that had attended it were gone. A moment later, the image faded away: the Overlord had succumbed to injuries sustained during the attack.

Boil was still processing what he had just seen and felt when a voice crept into him, filling his mind completely and irresistibly.

_Welt was careless._ The Queen of Blades seemed completely unfazed by the sudden loss. _He let the Alliance starfighters get too close.__ But do not concern yourself. We are safe from their weapons here, and I have told your other brother to tighten his defenses. Now, return to the battle. See if they have anything else to offer. I am waiting…_

The overriding consciousness slipped away, and Boil was left feeling refreshed, unburdened by fear. If the Queen was unconcerned, then he had no cause for alarm. Welt's loss was unexpected, but hardly devastating. His forces would fall easily under Boil's sway until a new Cerebrate could be grown. Perhaps his Queen would even resurrect Welt with the spark of his brother she kept within herself. No organ of the Swarm truly died as long as the heart was still beating.

---------------------------------------

Lt. Commander Addel and more than half of his remaining fighters shot away from the remains of the Zerg coordinator, atmospheric flaps open and straining against the wind of a gathering storm system. The pilots scanned the darkening African sky for signs of the Scourges that had harassed them since they had followed Battle Group Earth into the planet's lower atmosphere, but their work had granted them a momentary respite. Tassadar's tip, a short-burst communiqué from one of the Starfleet ships containing a simple set of coordinates, had paid off.

The Scourges weren't the only creatures affected by the loss of the Cerebrate. The Overlords that had been feeding its orders to lesser minions were disoriented and directionless, suddenly without the invisible, guiding hand that they were designed to depend upon. The surviving Cerebrates hurried to regain control of their conduits, but the disruption only needed to last for a few moments. The Overlord's psionic broadcasts had subsided, and so had their interference on the transporters within the Allied ships.

At more than a dozen sites where holes in the curtain of disruption had appeared, some less than twenty kilometers from Kerrigan's fortress, the glimmer of materialization beams shown behind rocky outcroppings and in sheltered depressions. The energy-matter transferences did not go unnoticed by Boil and his observers, and he immediately dispatched hundreds of warriors to scout each incursion site and prevent the expansion of the new arrivals. Only a handful of Allied vessels remained intact, most still moving rapidly towards the Queen's citadel: the rest had fallen victim to the clouds of Scourges that still prowled the skies, forced to ground hundreds of kilometers away or destroyed outright. Boil delegated the task of tracking them to his remaining subordinate, and turned his attention to the transportation sites.

The field of vision of an Overlord attached to one of the fastest responding groups caught his attention. Below the bulbous, floating creature, he saw hundreds of sets of powerful legs pounding the barren ground. A sea of quadruped Zerglings rushed over exposed rocks and tore through dead vegetation with raised claws, and among them he perceived the powerful, serpentine forms of Hydralisks, their keen sense's trained for the slightest hint of prey.

A few partially caved-in buildings, all that remained of a once-vibrant human settlement, came into view and Boil compelled his minions towards them: the ruins were ideal beachheads for the invaders.

The swarm of Zerg hurried down the wind-swept remnants of a roadway into the town, disregarding opportunities for stealth or cover in favor of speed and overwhelming numbers. As his horde closed within a few dozen meters of the first building, Boil expected the first lances of phaser fire to burst from roofs and windows, but the structures remained lifeless, still the graves they had been for months. Intrigued, he moved his Overlord closer, compelling it to navigate between the sagging wrecks of what had once been apartments and shops.

Rounding a vacant edifice, the Cerebrate finally found his targets: a dozen or more humans and Klingons standing beneath the graying awning of a little hotel. The hunting packs saw them too, and surged forward, some hissing or chattering with anticipation. Boil noted that the humanoids did not move to cover or open fire on the ravening creatures; they simply stared at their impending destruction, phaser rifles held at their hips. Fear had frozen them, perhaps, the Cerebrate mused. Pitiful creatures.

The lead Zerglings dove into their ranks, ready to taste hot blood and living flesh, and yet none moved an inch or made a sound. _This_ gave Boil pause, and the Zerglings as well. They ground to a halt, peering up at their prospective victims with tiny eyes, glazed with uncertainty. One sniffed the air and backed away from the stolid soldiers. A Hydralisk moved through the ranks of the lesser warriors, stopped before a Starfleet officer, and swung at it with a scythe-like claw; a decapitating blow.

But the man's head did not fall from its shoulders. Instead, a metallic clang resounded from him and he vanished in a spasm of horizontal static. In his place, the erect shaft of a photon torpedo stood affixed to the ground. The silvery chassis of a holographic projector, bisected by the Zerg's blow, fell sparking from the weapon's armored shell. A moment later, the other soldiers vanished, and in their place stood another pair of the devices. The impact seemed to have triggered something within the first, and a display on its side lit with a few blue numerals.

The numbers flashed twice. Deep within his protective cavern, Boil's brain-mass twitched.

Fourteen points of light and heat swelled across the continent's surface. Thousands of Zerg warriors died instantly, utterly obliterated by the photon blasts. Hundreds of Overlords and other greater beasts perished as well, momentarily blinding their masters and sending psionic feedback roiling across hundreds of kilometers. The uncounted hordes that had rushed to their Queen's defense reeled, and their monarch sat up in her throne, her thin smile gone.

When the sky cleared of glare, Zerg alone occupied it. Battle Group Earth had landed.

----------------------------------------------------------

The Master Chief stepped carefully from the hold of a shuttlecraft into the landing bay of the Excelsior-class _Montgomery_. The deck plate beneath his feet was at an incline, less than ten degrees, but still enough to require some attention to balance as he stepped away from the transport. The dim illumination of emergency lights above and the unusual orientation of the chamber – a sign of failing gravitational fields - was enough to tell the Chief that the ship had suffered quite a beating during its "landing". The impact had been jarring even through the inertial dampeners of the shuttle, and he was willing to bet that the _Montgomery_ would never fly again.

The bay seemed relatively intact: it had been completely stripped down before the Allied Fleet's journey to the Sol system, and eight shuttlecraft had been carefully packed and secured into its relatively small area. One of the vessels had broken from its restraints during the landing, and was now leaning against a dented bulkhead with a fractured nacelle case, but the rest were in place and undamaged. They were all top-of-the line craft, short-range rectangular shuttles, hastily modified for added durability and firepower. These were the Chief's warhorses, the armor and air support of Allied combined arms. They weren't the Scorpion battle tanks or Pelican dropships of the UNSC Marine Corps, but they would do.

He hoped, at least.

The main hatches of the shuttles opened and Allied soldiers poured into the bay. The ten-man load out of each set about their pre-assigned duties, freeing their ships from crash bands and external inertial absorption units, checking them for damage, and checking the weapons and equipment each carried. It was noisy work, but the Chief noted little bravado or pre-battle chatter among them. Perhaps it was the jarring nature of their entry into the battle. Perhaps it was the knowledge that some had already lost friends and colleagues today, lost with those ships that didn't reach ground.

Or perhaps it was the fact that, deep down, they didn't think they were ready for the fight. Most were Starfleet security officers or Klingon soldiers, used to ship-to-ship combat exercises and small-scale urban actions; experienced Alliance marines were few and far between. Very few of them had ever fought Zerg face-to-face. Most of the battles of the war had been fought and lost in space, and few escaped the world-bound slaughters that inevitably followed. The Chief and Major Truul had prepared them as best they could, but they had had only a few days, mostly taken over with the formation of combat squads and rapid training of unit leaders.

The Chief could see that they all had to will to fight. But they lacked appropriate training. They lacked a tried-and-true command structure. They lacked real armor support, and weapons worthy of full-scale ground combat.

Will would have to be enough.

"Communications officer!" he called, moving away from the bustle that filled most of the chamber.

An Alliance marine turned from the door of his shuttle and hurried over.

"Sir?"

"Do we have a link with the other ships?"

"The _Montgomery_'s comm suite is busted, sir, but we've chained the systems of the shuttle group. There's a lot of interference out there, but we've got responses from the _Troy_, _Rhine_, _Butte_, and _Gla'Mach_."

"And the rest?"

More than half of the battle group had been composed of crewless decoy ships, programmed to cover the descent of those vessels that contained Allied ground troops, but there had still been over a dozen that had been intended to make landfall.

The soldier shook his head. "It's possible that some were forced down beyond comm range. Our effective range with all the distortion the Zerg are putting out is less than fifty kilometers. As for the rest…"

The Chief didn't need him to finish the sentence. Anticipated casualties for the first stage of the incursion had been high.

"Get me the _Troy_ and the _Gla'Mach_."

The communications officer hurried back to his shuttecraft, checked with a few soldiers inside and then turned back.

"I'm patching them to your comm line," he called. "It'll take a few more seconds, and I can't guarantee how long I'll be able to hold the signal."

The Chief nodded, and then made for the bay's outer wall, which was now open to the air outside. Climbing to its edge, he stepped past a group of Starfleet crewers and peered at the landscape beyond.

The gray-white aft sections of the _Montgomery_ stretched out for a hundred meters below him. To either side, the pylons of the ship's warp nacelles rose up, obscuring some of the view. The higher, on the left, seemed largely undamaged, but the right was badly mangled, its base ground into the scorched dirt. Its drive was partially broken free, and looked as though it was in danger of falling upon the outstretched branch of its support. The ship had evidently run up against a hill or rise, and its whole port side was pressed into the furrowed ground.

The African Savanna lay beyond. The Chief had never seen the place – the Africa of his Earth - outside of educational vids in his youth, but he knew what it should have looked like. Dry and rocky grassland, stretching from horizon to horizon, dotted with isolated lakes and the occasional village or town. He fleetingly pictured herds of endangered elephants and hunting prides of lions, romanticized visions that were probably far-fetched even on his industrialized world.

Whether the Federation's version of Earth could once have upheld the fantasy before Kerrigan's arrival, it certainly could not now. The roiling plains and rocky outcroppings were still visible beneath the darkening sky, but they were covered in a dark-purple sheen that choked out vegetation and blocked sand from view. The thick mat of slime, creep, as Tassadar had called it, enveloped virtually all the land in the Chief's line of sight. The _Montgomery_'s landing had carved a long, broad furrow in the material, leaving charred earth and cast-up stones in its place, but it looked as though the substance was already beginning to probe the still-hot surface, eager to consume it once more.

The endless field of tainted, livid ooze was only broken by a single landmark. Almost directly in front of the Spartan, the gray hulk of a mountain filled the horizon. Through a haze that seemed to emanate from the creep itself, he could see its barren, vertical slopes and long, gradual peak. The natural monolith seemed relatively untouched by the dark mat that engulfed everything around it, but the Chief's enhanced vision could perceive buildings or constructs of some kind rooted in its crags and beyond its steep slopes.

This was Mount Kilimanjaro, the greatest peak on the entire continent. And, if Tassadar was right, the seat of Kerrigan's power. As the Master Chief stared at the imposing mass of rock, he couldn't help but admire the audacity of the Zerg Queen's choice. It was obvious, certainly, and subtly was often a far better defense than ramparts of stone, but it was still an intimidating obstacle for any attacker to even approach, much less overcome. And the Chief knew that the path there would be haunted by beings far more formidable than lions.

The comm unit in his helmet crackled.

"Sierra," he reported.

"Beta," crackled Truul's voice, heavily distorted but still recognizable.

"Alpha," Jacen Solo said a moment later. "Quite a landing."

"Status?"

"Clear. Beta Unit is on target and ready to go. Gamma missed her mark by about a kilometer, but she's gearing up, too."

The Chief nodded slightly, ticking off points of a mental checklist. Gamma Unit, attached to the _Butte_, was headed by Commander Worf. All the strike commanders had survived landfall.

"We're clear, too," Jacen said. "Alpha Core is eager to move."

Alpha Core, Tassadar, was the pivotal component of the strike force. He had provided them with as much intel on the disposition of the Zerg defense as he could on the way down, and picked up on hidden warrior concentrations and traps conventional scans had missed. The High Templar was also absolutely set upon penetrating Kerrigan's fortress himself, and it was everyone else's job to make sure he got there.

The creep and the darkness that seemed to rise from it made it difficult to see at any distance accurately, but the Chief perceived movement around the base of the mountain, only a few kilometers away. A great deal of movement.

It was time.

The Chief spun from the opening and jogged towards his waiting shuttle, now free of its restraints. The other soldiers were already piling into theirs, phaser rifles, disruptors and blasters at their sides.

"Mission clock: zero three point five," he said, checking his HUD's chronometer. "Sierra is deploying."

"I copy." Truul sounded calm and professional, in his element. "Beta and Gamma are engaging the Secondary. We'll keep as many of them off you as we can."

"Alpha and Epsilon are ready to join up with you, Chief," Jacen said, more noticeably nervous. "May the Force be with you. And you, Major."

"And you, Solo. Let's show Queen Bitch what we can do. Time's wasting."

"Copy that, Beta," the Chief said. "I'll see you all at the Primary. Sierra out."

The Spartan shared a short nod with his two lieutenants, a Klingon in full battle regalia and a woman in a shock-padded Starfleet uniform, and then climbed into his shuttle. The door closed quickly behind him and he climbed passed twin rows of seats, packed with Allied personnel. Some looked wide-eyed at the armored giant as he walked past. Others checked the sights on their weapons, avoiding eye contact with anyone else.

He could only hope they were ready. The task before them was one he wouldn't give lightly, even to a corps of Spartans like himself. No one had told them it was a suicide mission, but they all must have known it probably was.

And yet, they were all there with him. They knew that this was their last hope, every one. They would succeed because there was no other option, even if none of them lived to see the flag of victory raised. And that resolve was all any commander could ask for.

The Master Chief Stopped behind the pilot and peered out through the canopy at the looming face of the mountain, and the creature it housed. Above it, he could see the minute, flitting forms of winged beasts, Scourges and other monstrosities. The Zerg citadel was a scant few kilometers away, but moving on foot over open terrain, pock-marked with Zerg holes and writhing with thousands of enemy contacts, would be impossible. Air was their only option.

"Keep us fast and low, pilot."

"Affirmative, sir." The man looked up at the supersoldier's faceplate, and attempted a weak smile. "The bottom of this ship we'll be purple by the time we get there."

The Chief laid a hand lightly on the pilot's shoulder. He looked back up at the mountain, and then at the storm-laden sky. For an instant, he thought he heard a familiar voice just by his ear, a joke or focusing remark, but there was only the rev of his shuttle's drives and the breathing of the men behind him.

"Sir?"

The Chief grabbed a handhold on the frame above him.

"Punch it."

As the ship surged from the _Montgomery_'s landing bay, the Chief realized that he would willingly take on Kerrigan's hordes alone, if only that little voice was back inside his helmet.

---------------------------------------

The _Millennium Falcon_ tumbled through space, its flattened hull flipping almost end over end. It maneuvering thrusters fired in an automated sequence intended to stabilize the freighter's course, but the ship continued to wobble violently, dipping suddenly and then overcorrecting only to plunge into another barely-controlled spin. The space it had inhabited moments before was filled with an expanding cloud of fragmented hull plating, some of it still superheated from high-velocity contact with the _Falcon_'s skin-tight deflector screen. The angular hulk of a Klingon cruiser drifted away from the field, bleeding more debris from a massive breach in its midsection. The red illumination visible through slots in its angular nacelles flickered dangerously.

Han Solo ground his teeth, straining against his control yoke and the sudden increase in G-forces he could feel pressing on his body. An unwelcome hissing in the bulkhead above his head confirmed his suspicions: his ship's primary inertial dampeners had been knocked offline by the glancing impact with the Zerg warship. Fortunately, the auxiliaries had kicked in. If they hadn't, he and everyone aboard would be unpleasant-looking paste smeared on the deck plates.

A long, arcing push with his main sublights and a few emergency blasts from the ventral thrusters managed to stabilize the _Falcon_'s roll, but his instrument panel was still going wild, and Han couldn't take his eyes off his navigational displays and the wide canopy before him long enough to sort them out. The crimson glow of a photon torpedo shot across his bow, forcing him to initiate another dive to avoid the subsequent detonation.

A single bead of sweat dripped onto Han's eyebrow. The odor of burning polyplast and an echoing roar from deeper within the ship were doing little to improve his concentration.

"There was nothing I could do!" he called out to his perturbed gunner. A lance of phaser energy lased against the freighter's underside, and another light on Han's interface began to blink angrily. "Even the heavier ships are trying to ram us now! It was all I could do to avoid their center mass!"

The bellow that thundered down the access corridor beyond the bridge in response sounded unconvinced.

"Just keep on that gun, Chewie! I can't draw a bead on the Cerebrate if I'm dodging exploding eyeballs and flying plates!"

And Picard had been right about the Cerebrate. As soon as the _Millennium Falcon_ had gotten within a thousand kilometers of the fast little Starfleet picket ship the Captain had pointed out, all its escorts had opened up on him with suicidal fervor. They were still more sluggish than the other infested warships the _Falcon_ had engaged, but whatever the Protoss had done to them was wearing off, and the freighter was still outnumbered ten to one, not counting the Scourges that were still flitting between the larger enemy vessels.

Han felt the report of his ship's pair of quad laser cannons through the soles of his boots as he surged past a pair of ponderous Cardassian hulls. As he shot around them in a wide arc, a contact dropped off of his FOF scanner.

Nine to one. Han grinned. _Those_ were odds he could deal with.

The Corellian yanked on his maneuvering pulls and the stars before him briefly spun into dashes of light before stopping again. The turn had placed a new point of light directly in Han's sights. Electronic aides showed a representation of the Cerebrate's ship, surging as quickly as its drives were able towards the gentle, bright arc of Earth. The _Falcon_ outperformed Starfleet designs in virtually every category of comparison, but some could still top it at sublight speeds, and it looked like the Zerg coordinator had chosen one that did. There was no way he could get within weapons range of it before it disappeared into the thick of the Earthward Zerg battle line.

That was, if he played fair.

Heavy footfalls pounded through the low hatchway of the _Falcon_'s cockpit. Han didn't take his eyes off the receding point of light. He jabbed at the interface of a navigation panel, his brow furrowed.

"Chewie, the guns!"

Chewbacca pulled a breath mask from his muzzle and moaned urgently, indicating back down the entryway, which was now choked with acrid smoke.

"I know the automated fire suppressors are offline. Have one of the guys you've got on the quads grab a hand-held."

The Wookiee was about to turn back into the haze when he caught sight of what Han was doing and issued an alarmed question.

"You recalibrated the micro-jump ranging in the navicomputer before we left, right?"

A cautious affirmative sound.

Han grinned.

"Then you'd better grab a seat, buddy. This'll be tight."

Chewbacca wailed and threw himself into the co-pilot's chair. Before the Wookiee even hit the cushions, Han deactivated a safety switch with a flick and shoved forward on his control sticks.

"Come on, baby."

The stars before them surged into smears of light as the freighter lurched into hyperspace. Before Chewbacca could even fully register the change, the Millennium Falcon jerked back into realspace with a tremendous bang that rattled every plate, person, and machine within its hull. The abrupt jump and reemergence knocked Alliance techs standing in the _Falcon_'s hold off their feet and into the nearest bulkheads and slammed the breath out of both the occupants of its cockpit.

Han tried to ignore the pained screech of overtaxed machinery from his ship's aft sections and pushed through the suffocating blackness that attempted to close over his eyes. The transparisteel canopy was now filled with nothing but interstellar blackness and the distant sparkle of alien suns. Holding his breath, Han sent his ship into a narrow, 180-degree turn. For an instant, there was nothing before him but more stars…

… and then the full mass of Earth loomed directly before them, eclipsing the rest of space with its great, blue form. They were now just beyond the Zerg line and the heart of the battle. And between them, a small shape against the planet's reflected shine, still racing from an unseen pursuer.

"Chewie!" Han demanded, pushing into his controls again. "Missiles!"

The Wookiee's huge paws fell upon his weapons interface without question as the ship surged forward, closing what remained of the gap. Within the freighter's split forward section, a pair of blue-tinted concussion missiles slid from storage racks into waiting shafts.

The smooth lines of the Cerebrate's runner resolved against the glare, a spot of black in a wall of light.

Han's eyes widened.

"Now!"

One after the other, two elongated projectiles rocketed from the _Millennium Falcon_, slashing through space so quickly that Han and Chewie barely saw the flash of their departure. They flew straight and true, adjusting only slightly with the mounting gravity of the planet beyond. No other corrections were required; Han Solo had aimed well.

The first missile shot under the Zerg ship's drive section, missing its shield bubble by meters. Before it could travel any further, however, the second found its mark, and both ignited with tremendous force. The shield shattered uselessly and the vulnerable plating underneath was laid bare to the ravaging energies of the twin weapons.

The two pilots shared a yell of triumph as they watched the flayed remnants of the Cerebrate's vessel plummet into Earth's yawning gravity well.

The fragmented vestiges of the ship burned into nothingness as they were pulled into Earth's atmosphere, joining the storm of fiery streaks that rippled across half a hemisphere. Much of the debris was the handiwork of the Allied fleet earlier in the battle, but an increasing volume of the rain of misshapen duranium ingots and charred casings was the product of Zerg resistance. As the _Millennium Falcon_ skimmed Earth's outer atmosphere and surged back towards the main combat zone, the significance of those lost vessels became clear.

The five space-borne task forces of the Allied fleet, arranged into cohesive forward and rear combat fronts when the _Falcon_ had begun its hunt, had compacted into a rapidly-shrinking orb. Pinned in the space above the African continent, the fleet was almost completely surrounded by the massed Zerg armada. Only a narrow, planetward corridor on the fleet's perimeter remained free of enemy ships, and that too was beset by half a dozen tendrils of infested contacts. The rest of the space around the allied force was crowded with an endless number of confused dogfights and a still greater quantity of shattered hulls.

Captain Picard stared at the _Enterprise_'s primary viewscreen, his hand clenched tightly on the back of his navigation officer's chair. Before him, a thin band of Klingon warships maneuvered through a screen of debris and phaser fire. The formation, no more than twenty ships, was all that remained of Battle Group Qo'nos. General K'Nera's forces had been cut off when the Allied fleet had begun to collapse inwards, and hadn't made contact with any of the other commanders since.

"Has Qo'nos reached the Fleet's perimeter?" Picard asked, turning to Commander Data.

The android glanced down at one of his displays. "They will reach it in eighty seconds, sir. However, it appears that the Zerg units pursuing it have not broken off. They will overtake Qo'nos in forty five seconds."

"Can't the squadrons in that sector assist?"

"Negative, sir. All ships within range are heavily engaged. Diverting units in that area might allow for an even larger incursion."

Picard looked back at the Klingon ships, keenly aware that there were fewer of them displayed than when he had last looked.

With the Alliance fighters tasked with providing air support for Battle Group Earth, the Allied fleet was severely out-gunned. The Zerg armada had lost a Cerebrate due to General Solo's efforts and perhaps another during Earth's breakthrough, but sheer weight of numbers was made up for their lessened coordination. The Fleet as a whole was down to half-strength, and it was all that it could do to hold the sphere above in orbit above Africa. The remnants of each battle group were beset by unending series of suicide charges and running low on heavy munitions. The Zerg casualties were staggering, but at the rate the battle was progressing, the Alliance would run out of ships and missiles long before Kerrigan's minions did.

The Allied forces had to rally if there was to be any hope of their survival, and Picard knew that losing an entire division of the fleet would make such a turnabout even more unlikely.

"Helm, put us on an intercept with Qo'nos' pursuers," Picard ordered.

"Sir, if this squadron leave the line…" the tactical officer began to protest.

"Not our squadrons," Picard said. "Just the _Enterprise_. Have the other captains keep their ships here. The perimeter must hold."

There was a momentary lull on the bridge as the command officers digested the significance of the order. Data stared at his commanding officer and Picard locked eyes with him. What he had just ordered them to do was logically and tactically unsound; risking a command ship to potentially cover another could result in the loss of both. And even if the distraction of the _Enterprise_'s attack managed to buy the Klingons enough time to rejoin the rest of the fleet, the ship would be alone in the midst of overwhelming numbers. Had Riker been sitting in Data's chair, he would have abandoned decorum and jumped up to dispute the plan in full face of the captain's crew. Picard would have expected him to; the move was suicide.

Data's face was impassive, but he did not respond immediately. Picard knew his second was carefully considering the order, trying to deduce its possible precursors and likely outcome.

_Trust, Data._

"I suggest that you keep the _Enterprise_ within the Fleet's as long as possible, sir," Data said, only slightly more slow and careful than unusual. "It will decrease the likelihood of the Zerg units anticipating our maneuver."

Picard's lips creased with relief.

"Make it so."

The _Enterprise_ banked away from its flanking host of Starfleet warships and shot away from Earth, arcing to match the tight curve of the besieged battle line.

As embattled warships and tumbling wrecks turned into streaks of light and movement, Picard looked out towards the great circle of Luna and the dim stars beyond, eerily placid against the carnage they backed.

_If you're out there, now is the time. _


	51. Chapter Sixty Nine

**Chapter Sixty Nine**

Jacen Solo leapt easily from one rocky outcropping to the next on the steep slope. The dry stone and dust beneath his feet crumbled and shifted at his weight, but he steadied himself by throwing out both arms, careful to keep a tight grip on the lightsaber grip clasped in his right hand. When he was sure of his balance, Jacen scanned the bare slope before him, and continued his ascent. The sound of a dozen, trudging pairs of feet kept pace on either side, almost masking the chorus of heavy breathing and jostling equipment that emanated from young Jedi's companions. The hurried progress of the mixed group of Starfleet and Alliance personnel did not slow even when they came to a shallow trough in the steep slope. They plowed through the thicket of dead vegetation that filled it and scaled the other side, intent on the crest of the rocky face, less than ten meters ahead.

A roar of super-compressed air directed Jacen's attention skyward. As he glanced at the dark, roiling sky, the green-sided form of an Alliance starfighter streaked overhead. Close behind the A-Wing, which had passed less than a hundred meters above them, half a dozen scaled creatures shot past, their massive, clawed wings beating the air vigorously. Several of the flighted Zerg loosed keening cries, and one discharged a convulsing projectile from the tip of its curved, tail-like body.

Jacen did not turn to see if the Zerg had hit its target. Several of his soldiers had already reached the lip of rocky earth at the slope's peak, and he hurried to join them. A few long strides brought him there, and he helped push a puffing Starfleet officer over the edge. The run up the slope, although brief, had been exhausting, and Jacen had already been forced to tap into the Force to preserve his stamina.

To his relief, the next being to reach the ridge also appeared to have maintained his strength.

"Tassadar," he said, extending an arm to help the towering alien onto the lip of gravel and exposed stone. Tassadar accepted the help and heaved his armored bulk up next to the Jedi.

"I am the last," he intoned, looking down at Jacen without any outward signs of distress. "Is this place secure?"

Jacen nodded. There was another trough just beyond the ridge, and the others had piled into it, their blasters and phaser rifles drawn even as they caught their collective breath.

"We should stop here for a minute. They might not get another chance to rest for a long time."

"We must not tarry, Solo," Tassadar replied. "No place on this mountain is safe, and it will not be long until Kerrigan brings the full force of her multitudes against us."

Jacen glanced at his squad, and then looked back down the sloped they had just scaled. It had been a rough climb, steep and marred by unstable mounds of stone, but they hadn't encountered a single Zerg warrior during the course of their ascent. The lack of resistance puzzled Jacen; the ridge on which they stood was not part of the main mass of Mount Kilimanjaro – rather, it was a long spine of raised rock that trailed from the main formation to a group of smaller peaks hundreds of meters away – but it's rough surface was ideal for hiding ambush holes and traps. Tassadar's pointed face was impassive, but Jacen thought could sense unease from the templar as well.

Far down the slope, Jacen could make out the shuttle that had brought them all to the mountainside. They had been forced into a controlled crash by fire from a Zerg anti-air growth and come to ground well short of their final target, and had hastily abandoned the ship in an attempt to avoid the inevitable clean-up units. No one was left to guard the shuttle. Jacen tried not to think about how little thought had been given to escape from Kerrigan's fortress, should they succeed.

As the young Jedi watched, the mountain's guardians finally appeared; from the lifeless, dusty slope, dozens of tiny, inhuman forces suddenly swept over the shuttle. They seemed to come from nowhere, but as Jacen looked on, he noticed a pack of the creatures scrabble from a shaft hidden behind a cairn of stones.

"This place is wormed with their tunnels," Tassadar warned. "They can emerge from any part of it. We must not linger."

Jacen nodded, and turned to the others.

"We're heading out up the ridge. Keep to the rocks as much as you can, and watch out for any…"

His gut clenched. Danger.

He cast about for the source of the abrupt premonition. Then the ground beneath his feet began to tremble.

"Out!" he shouted. "Out of the dip!"

The soldiers threw themselves at the sides of the depression, but before any could clamber out of it fully, its bottom cracked and transformed into a churning pool of rubble. There was another great tremor, and Tassadar and Jacen were nearly knocked off their feet into the trough. Before their eyes, a wide swath of ruptured ground fell away and a pair of massive legs and wide, hoofed feet burst from below. The limbs scrabbled for purchase on the sides of the depression, and an angular head burst up between them, showering the fleeing soldiers with fist-sized rocks.

The creature that tore itself from the ground was massive, easily as tall as a mature Rancor and far more massive. Its four muscular legs, each thicker than two men, supported a squat body of thick hide and chitinous plate. Atop this mass was the creature's head, a huge, flattened barrel that seemed to serve as little more than a pivot for the pair of meters-long bone scythes that flanked it. The mind Jacen perceived within its hardened skull was animalistic and chaotic, impossible to reach with the calming influence of the Force. The fire that Kerrigan instilled in all her minions both sheltered it and drove it towards oblivion.

The Jedi ignited his lightsaber. The burst of light and sound drew the creature's attention, allowing the soldiers who had escaped the shower of debris more time to flee. Slowly, it pulled itself from its hole and planted its front feet on the ridge to Jacen's either side. He watched its ponderous movements and tensed himself, waiting for the thing to try and bring the massive hooves down upon him.

There was a twang of tendons, and the creature's outstretched scythes swung together on back-slung jaws. The sudden movement caught Jacen off-guard, but before could make a move to escape the double guillotine, a blow to his back sent Jacen tumbling down into the trough, directly under the titan. As he slid through dislodged gravel, Jacen heard the blades clash together uselessly.

Slamming his foot onto a jut of rock, Jacen stopped is descent at the edge of the hole the creature above him had created and pushed himself to his knees. Looking back, he saw Tassadar standing on the ridge where he had been, just beyond the beast's withdrawing mandibles.

"Its knees!" Tassadar called, just as the creature swept a leg across the ridge at the Protoss, unleashing a wave of dust and earth. The high templar seemed to simply vanish a moment before the blow reached him, but Jacen didn't waste a moment to try and find him again. He leapt to his feet and focused on the beast's hind legs, perched centimeters from the pit's edge.

In a moment he was next to one, and his blade slashed into the leg at the joint, above the protective growths that etched up from its hoof. The lightsaber punched through its hide, but its progress was not easy, and Jacen was only able to inflict a shallow gash before the beast drew the injured leg up and then smashed it down, trying to the squash the interloper. Jacen avoid the foot, but the shock of its impact against the ground sent him sprawling.

Lances and darts of fiery light splashed against the creature's body and neck from several directions. The outer layers of its hide boiled and charred, but the biological war machine shrugged off the blows, turning its attention towards the scattered ring of soldiers that surrounded it. With unerring speed, it stomped towards a knot of three and swung its head down upon them. Its blades slashed into the soldiers, and Jacen heard their screams as he pushed himself from the silt.

Before he could even find his footing, the creature was back on top of him, intent upon a group of Allied soldiers on the other side of the depression. A massive hoof came down upon Jacen, but he anticipated the movement and rolled to the side. The creature lumbered past and Jacen rose once more.

He watched a Starfleet officer lash across one of its forelegs with his phaser. The beast shuddered, but the blast did not stop it from crushing the hapless man and clench another between its jaws.

Tassadar was right about its knees, Jacen knew, but the Allied soldiers lacked the firepower and cohesion to bypass its dense hide. His blade might work, but he doubted he'd survive many more forays beneath the beast's crushing feet.

The titan flailed at another retreating officer, knocking a large rock from the ridge into the air. Jacen side-stepped the missile, and promptly had to lean forward to stop himself from falling backwards into the pit left by the creature's emergence. Glancing down, he saw that the hole was quite deep, despite the mounds of debris knocked into it in the war beast's swath.

A desperate cry of pain pulled Jacen back to the battle.

"Pull back!" Jacen ordered as loudly as he could. "Stop shooting it!"

The fire from the remaining soldiers petered out as they hurriedly complied with the Jedi's command. The Zerg monstrosity noted the withdrawal, and made to pursue the closest pair of humanoids, put it ground to a halt when a large rock bounced off the base of its right blade.

Still standing at the brink, Jacen telekinetically wrenched another stone from the rubble and flung it at the creature's head, waving his lightsaber in its direction as cast around for the new attacker. As he had hoped, the beast fixated on Jacen and lumbered straight at him, its pincer-head waggling up and down in anticipation.

The creature was almost within arm's reach before Jacen moved again. It brought its head upon him, and the Jedi caught a glimpse of tiny, blank eyes deeply ensconced within it before he leapt backwards, somersaulting backwards into the air. The beast followed with significantly less grace. The ground in its path fell away, and it plummeted headlong into the pit with such force that it flipped onto its back before dropping the few meters to the hole's clogged bottom.

Jacen alighted on the far side, but the force of the beast's fall knocked the ground beneath him into the widening depression and he found himself being propelled towards a quartet of powerful, flailing legs that now filled its bottom. He jumped again, this time landing on the beast's up-turned belly. It seemed not to sense the impact through its dense hide, and continued to pound at the air aimlessly with its legs. Steadying himself, Jacen marveled at what he sensed from the creature. Even its compromised state, he could sense no animal fear or drive for preservation. It desired only to fight and destroy, to satisfy the hunger that the Swarm instilled in all its beings.

The Jedi felt disgust bubble up within him. This thing was a true monstrosity, an aberration of life. Nothing would benefit from its continued existence save its equally perverted master. Staring down at the thing's blood-stained mandibles, pressed by its own mass against the ground, he felt a sudden compulsion to slay the thing. Not just to eliminate it as a threat, but erase it from existence entirely.

_Hatred and revenge are the surest paths to the Dark Side. _

The mantra, one of many pounded into him during his youth, crept into his mind unbidden, and his heart slowed.

_Needless killing is not the Jedi way. Destroy only when you must, and always with a mind that which you silence. _

Jacen lowered his blade. The creature was thoroughly stuck. Killing it now would accomplish nothing, even if was but a thing of evil.

"Jedi Solo!"

He looked up at the edges of the pit. Several soldiers from his squad were crowded there, peering at the incapacitated titan warily.

"I'm all right," he replied. Jacen took a last look at the struggling creature and then made from the steep wall of the depression, careful to avoid the thing's thrashing legs.

Reaching the top, Jacen wiped dust and sweat from his face and inspected the survivors. They all seemed to be uninjured, but the surprise attack had obviously taken a toll. The empty space in their formation was a blatant-enough indicator of that.

"The others?"

"We lost five, sir," an Alliance marine reported. A few of the others glanced at the outcropping where the Zerg's first group of victims had been caught. "None of them made it."

"And Tassadar?"

"I am uninjured." The Protoss appeared from beyond the ridge, his dark cloak spattered with dust. He paused to look down at the fallen titan. "You did well, Solo. Ultralisks are formidable foes. Kerrigan has crafted her fortifications carefully, if she can hide such a beast so well."

Jacen nodded shortly.

"We should keep moving."

"Indeed. The Zerg that located our craft have begun to scale the ridge, and their numbers are growing."

Jacen turned to face the main mountain face in the distance, but as he did, a new burst of premonition made him focus on the pit again. As he did, his vision was filled by the barbed frame of a leaping Zergling, its jaws wide and its claws splayed. Jacen's lightsaber burst to life in an instant and he bisected the vicious thing, side-stepping its severed limbs as they sailed past. Tassadar bristled and the soldiers hurriedly aimed their weapons, but two more of the creatures were already upon them. Jacen slew another before it could even clear the pit, but the other leapt onto solid ground and threw itself at a hapless Starfleet officer standing less than a meter away.

The woman tried to get a bead on it with her phaser, but the weapon was barely raised when the quadruped knocked her to the ground. It arched its slimy frame, ready to tear into the woman's flesh with tooth and claw, but the report of blaster rifle sounded from across the depression and the Zergling rolled onto its side, back shattered and smoking.

Burrowing their way out from underneath where the Ultralisk lay, more Zerglings appeared, taking advantage of the racket of the larger Zerg's struggles to clamber up the shifting slopes unnoticed. The other soldiers opened up on the new attackers, and half a dozen of the beast rolled back into the pit, waylaying still others who were vying to emerge.

Jacen pulled the fallen officer to her feet and then gestured towards the direction of the first shot.

"Come on!"

The seven skirted around the edge of the depression, firing intermittent bursts into the hole as more Zerglings showed their malformed heads. Additional fire came from the other side; even in the dimming light, it was easy for Jacen to see where it was coming from. The Master Chief stood with one leg on a cracked shelf of rock, using his knee to help aim his weapon, an Imperial-made heavy blaster repeater, as he swept the Zerg hole. A trio of Allied personnel were still hurrying up the slope behind him.

The two groups met the Chief at the same time.

"Rig!" the Spartan demanded.

A soldier unclipped a phaser pistol from his belt and tossed it to his superior. The weapon's small handle display was blank, and all but one of its buttons had been removed. The Chief jabbed the remaining control, and immediately it began to emit a high-pitched whine. He took aim and lobbed the jury-rigged phaser into the pit.

"Move it!"

As one, the Chief, Jacen, and the rest broke from the lip and ran for the long crest of the ridge. Behind them, the whine escalated into a screech, and then terminated in a resounding boom. Jacen squinted against the glare of the overloaded phaser and looked over his shoulder. Nothing followed them from the blackened crater.

"Almost as good as an actual incendiary," the Chief said to himself. "Wish I had more of them."

"Master Chief!" Jacen called, pulling alongside him.

"Solo," he replied, slowing slightly. Behind them, Tassadar and the two squads did as best they could to keep pace and maintain their footing on the uneven terrain.

"Where are the others?"

"Zerg anti-air forced my shuttle to find an LZ short of the target zone. It was hot. I lost most of my squad, and the rest of us had to double-back on to this ridge to escape our pursuers. We still have at least twenty Zerg tailing us."

"The same thing happened to my shuttle," Jacen said. "We all made it out alive, but that creature in the pit came up from the ground when we reached the top of the ridge."

The Chief nodded curtly. "The Tassadar's intel was good. This place is honeycombed with tunnels and ambush holes."

"What of the other units?" Tassadar asked from a few paces behind.

"Unknown. Zerg jamming intensified as soon as we began our approach. I know my unit lost at least two shuttles before we reached the mountain. Hopefully, the others made it to the target zone and are holding, or dropped early and are converging. I haven't been able to contact Beta or Gamma since touchdown."

"The second Cerebrate still lives," Tassadar said. "I can still sense its mind."

"Then we'd better hope Beta and Gamma are still operational, too."

Jacen suppressed a grimace. He had seen his share of combat, but that had not prepared for the rate casualties were increasing. He had known all along that this might be a suicide mission, but that knowledge hadn't really begun to sink in until the last few minutes. A Jedi was not supposed to fear death; it was but to become one with the Force, a new state of being. Nevertheless, the mounting agitation of those around him and his own, increasingly unrestrained emotions were wearing at his training.

There was a roar overhead, and an X-Wing shot over them from the direction of the main peak. The group turned to watch as it swung low over the ridge, and then peppered the lower face of one of the slopes with its quartet of laser cannons. There was a distant burst of screeching and howling, and dozens of minute forms began to tumble down the steep face. Several of the soldiers in the group loosed a weak cheer, but it was cut short as another volley of sound boomed from the air above Kilimanjaro.

Jacen could make out the form of an Alliance Y-Wing shuddering as it moved along the same trajectory that the X-Wing had taken. It was buffeted by a continual chain of violent explosions, some of which momentarily blocked it from view. The Jedi didn't need to wonder what was assailing it; the even smaller forms of three bat-like Scourges streaked into view as the Y-Wing approached. The starfighter attempted to execute a sharp banking turn, but the evasive maneuver merely allowed the Zerg minions to slam directly into the ship's belly. The Y-Wing crumpled immediately under the onslaught, and its wreckage dove straight down into one of the shallow crevasses that lined the mountainside.

The Chief slowed to a stop as the crash site burned in the distance.

"Air support can't keep them off of us forever. We need to get to that mountain. Now, double-time! And keep an eye on the ground. They're just as likely to come from below as above."

None of the others raised a voice of objection, and soon they were running again up the increasingly-steep ridge. Before them, Kilimanjaro loomed ever higher beneath the blackening sky.

* * *

The trek did not take long, but by the time they left the top of the ridge for a wide ravine that cut into the mountain's main peak, the sky had dimmed to a muddy, deep gray. The gathering twilight had seen only a minor skirmish with a patrol of Zerglings, but the relative ease of their progress seemed to unsettle Jacen and the Chief. Either Allied air cover was more effective than any of them had thought at keeping mountain's defenders at bay, or Kerrigan was holding back. Surely, she knew that the intruders had reached the walls of her fortress, and yet they were not being overwhelmed by endless waves of Zerg both knew were lurking on all sides.

Passing by a Starfleet shuttle that had crashed at the mouth of the ravine, mercifully free of corpses, the group moved cautiously between towering walls of rock. The Chief indicated that they should all be as silent as possible, but there was little need. Each was far too occupied scanning the barren walls and listening past the distant sounds of laserfire to talk. Jacen sensed life up ahead, but his senses became cloudier with every step they took towards the mountains heart, and he could not tell if they beings he felt were friend or foe. He cast a questioning look at Tassadar, but the templar kept his eyes straight ahead and his cloak wrapped close.

At length, the officer the Chief has saved waved him close and indicated to her tricorder.

"Sir, the target zone is just ahead, beyond that jut of rock," she whispered, indicating to a rounded, nearly vertical face of dull stone that narrowed the ravine's floor and blocked their view.

The target zone, chosen by Tassadar before the mission had commenced, was the most likely point of entry into the mountain, an organic sphincter visible from orbital scans. If any of the other shuttle crews had survived, they would have converged on the structure.

There had been no sign of life, human or otherwise, since they had left the ridge, but Jacen noticed indentations on a patch of sand that ran up to the narrow gap.

"Footprints," he said. "Humanoid."

"Let's go then," an Alliance marine urged, glancing over his shoulder at the empty pass. He started forward, but Tassadar held out an arm.

"Wait."

The alien moved to the side of the ravine, where the rock bowed out into their path. He scanned the surface, and then kneeled, his eyes undulating. A long finger brushed a small gouge on the base of the formation. Tassadar moved his hand up the smooth surface a meter, and then turned his gaze up along its rapidly-rising crest. Other marks marred the stone at random internals, some barely-visible scratches, others deep and wide.

"There is another path here," he said softly. "Older, and less obvious."

"Up that?" the Chief asked, following the templar's gaze. The slope steep and relatively smooth, but it was far more gradual than the bowed face further along.

"I believe that this is the better way," Tassadar replied, already testing the surface with a foot. "The lower course feels like a trap."

The Chief looked between the templar and the pass in silence, turning the stock of his rifle over in his hands.

"I agree, Chief," Jacen said. "There's something wrong about this all of this. If we can approach in a way Kerrigan might not expect, we should."

The Spartan considered Jacen for a moment longer, and then hefted his weapon onto his back, where magnetic clamps held it fast.

"Let's make this quick, then. After the Protoss, Solo."

Jacen turned to see that Tassadar was already making his way up the rounded face, carefully inserting his huge feet into the claw marks that had drawn his notice. The others shouldered or clipped their weapons and followed suit, and soon the opening of the ravine was empty once more.

After a few dozen meters, the slope came to narrow crack in the wall of the ravine itself and leveled off, allowing the party to slide in with their feet on even ground. The gap was so narrow that Tassadar was barely able to slide through with his back to the wall, but he persevered. Jacen noticed that the Protoss scanned the walls of the space constantly and intently as he moved, picking up on every minute scratch and cleft. More, it seemed as though he was looking beyond the rock, peering into the depths of the mountain. He didn't have to ask what was preoccupying the templar; there was a power close at hand, as dark as the sky above.

The gap opened onto another sloping path, sided to the left by a vertical wall of rock and to the right by a sharp drop into the center of the ravine. Careful not to stray too close, Jacen peered down over the edge, but he saw nothing more than another stretch of lifeless sand and stone. Nevertheless, Tassadar remained stiff and wary, and silence hung heavily over the others.

Their narrow path inclined upwards sharply not long after the pass, widening into a ledge large enough to accommodate all of them. Beyond the far lip of the open area, Jacen perceived the end of the larger ravine, a convergence of the two steep walls that tapered down out of sight to the formation's floor. Wind echoed through the expanse from above, but no other sounds reached their high path.

"We should hear the others by now," an Allied soldier whispered. "And where are the fighters?"

"Cut the chatter," the Master Chief ordered, but he eased the rifle down from his back. The others followed suit.

Tassadar took a few steps onto the ledge, but rather than making for the other side, he stop at a large alcove in the rock. It was less than a meter deep, but the heap of large stones at its back indicated that it had once gone much deeper.

The high templar pressed a huge hand against one of the boulders, and his eyes slipped shut. Jacen felt energy crackle between the Protoss and the mountain, and the hairs on his back stood on end.

"Here," Tassadar muttered. "There is a path here."

"I thought you said that the main entrance was our best," the Chief said, moving alongside him.

"I could not perceive this way before. We were too far. I am not certain…"

Tassadar withdrew suddenly from the rock and his eyes flashed open. He brought his hands to his head, as if racked by a sudden pain, but when Jacen approached, he waved him off.

"No. I just felt… this is the way. It is an old tunnel. It should be safe, for a time."

"And what about the other strike teams?" Jacen asked.

The Chief looked from one to the other, and then back at the rubble-clogged indentation. "If any made it to the mountain, they should be close by, in the ravine."

He turned to one of the Starfleet officers who was waiting behind them. "Can your phaser penetrate this?"

She looked at the alcove, and then flipped open her tricorder. "I'll need a moment to calibrate it if you want a stable shaft, but yes, I think so."

"Do it."

The officer immediately began to scan the surface, and the Chief turned back to Jacen.

"Take two men and continue down the ravine. If you find the other units, contact them and guide them back up here. I'm taking the rest in as soon as the debris is clear. Follow us in with as many men as you can locate."

Jacen spared another glance at Tassadar, who was now leaning against the ravine wall with a hand clasped to his forehead, and then gestured to a pair of the soldiers, who fell in behind him.

They did not have to walk far. As soon as the three came to the ledge's far lip, a wave of dread and revulsion washed over him.

From his vantage point, nearly twenty meters up the side of the ravine, he could see the entirety of the sheltered valley that made up the formation's terminus. The path on which he stood did continue on, narrowing as it wound down to the ravine floor until it ended just short of the flattened back face. The lower of half of this face was dominated by an enormous structure, one Jacen recognized from long-range orbital shots of the entry point Tassadar had picked out for them. A lens twelve meters in diameter, the portal was tethered to the mountainside by a tangled fusion of blackened rock and livid, organic growth. A shell of gray bone and purplish plating covered the lens itself, giving the structure the appearance of a great, burrowing beetle lodged in the rock. Jacen knew that that might actually be close to the truth; the building-creature probably extended deep into the mountain, perhaps constituting most of the interior of Kerrigan's fortress.

The open space before the biological construct had once been covered by the enveloping Zerg creep, sustenance for the menagerie of other growths that had flanked the entryway, but much of the living surface had been burned away, and the lesser structures with it. Only meters from the gutted bases of anti-air appendages, a trio of shuttlecraft sat on scorched rock. The hatches of the vessels were wide open, but Jacen saw no movement within them, or anywhere in the valley.

One of the soldiers the Jedi had chosen to accompany him choked back a gasp of horror.

Fragments of humanoid figures covered the valley floor. What Jacen had first assumed to be carbon scoring from the Allied incursion was actually a thick layer of dark blood and ichor, lit in flickering bursts by a collapsed Starfleet field beacon. Strewn throughout were fragments of humanoid forms – human, Klingon, Cardassian, Wookiee, and others wholly unrecognizable – stuck to the rock walls, dashed against the shuttles, or mounded in wet heaps before the sealed gate. The corpses of a handful of Zerg warriors lay sprawled to one side, but the vast majority of the carnage was humanoid in origin.

Jacen had seen slaughter in the _Republica_'s cargo bays, but this transcended even that savagery, violence brutal and indiscriminate, but quick. The scope of the death laid out below him was calculated and malicious. Butchery.

The Chief's assessment, seen through the magnification and illumination his visor afforded him, was the same.

"Forty, at least," he said slowly, turning away from the grisly spectacle. "It doesn't even look like they had a chance to fight back."

"They lie in wait," Tassadar said softly. He hadn't moved from the ravine wall. "We are at the heart of the Swarm. They need not make themselves know until it is their time to strike. Their prey comes to them, and cannot escape. There is need for efficiency or speed then. The beasts burst free, and the feeding begins. They, upon flesh and blood. She, upon fear, and death itself."

"How?" Jacen sunk onto the lip, his back to the scene below. "How are we still alive? That creature back on the ridge attacked us. She must have realized that we were here, too. Why has she not sprung a trap on us?"

Tassadar let his hand fall from his face, and caught Jacen's eyes with his own, unblinking orbs.

"Surely you have realized by now, Jedi. Our lives ended as soon as those ships reached this blackened plain. We still breathe only because she wills it. The Queen of Blades is drawing us in, deeper into a trap from which she thinks there is no escape. She wants _me_. She needs _me_ to come closer."

Tassadar paused. Jacen felt his fists clench.

"You live only because you are with me, and she has not seen fit yet to prune you from me."

Slowly, Jacen rose from the rock, his gaze fixed on the Protoss. Tassadar did not quaver under his stare, instead returning it with equal intensity.

"You knew," he whispered. "You knew from the start that she would let you come here to face her."

"As did you," Tassadar replied. "I made it no secret that the only hope, the entire purpose of this gambit, was for me to reach Kerrigan."

"But then why them?" The words came out harsher and louder than Jacen knew was wise, but he suddenly did not care. "Why let all those men and women die? And the fleet! Thousands up there are dead, are still dying, and for nothing!"

_Calm yourself, young one. Anger is not the path._

The admonition from his training echoed in his head, but it seemed far away, and was easily pushed aside. All Jacen could think about were the bodies strewn below. And his father, and Chewbacca.

Laura.

"Not for nothing," Tassadar said, undaunted by the Jedi's apparent agitation.

Jacen advanced on Tassadar, his lightsaber pommel clenched in white knuckles. The Allied soldiers around them back away uneasily.

"Then for what, Tassadar? Why not come alone? If she wants to face you so badly, she would have let you. The fleet could have held back, taken more time to plan and regroup, instead of throwing itself blindly upon her fortress, one you knew it could not break!"

"You do not know the Queen as I do, Solo. You have not touched her mind as I have. This, all of this, is a game. Her armies, the worlds she has taken, your resistance, is meaningless to her. She believes herself invincible. Even I, the destroyer of her predecessor, am but a curiosity in her eyes. Something to be toyed with before being discarded. I do not know why she was so intent upon me coming here, but I had to, before her fancies changed and my only chance to bring her to a reckoning was lost."

"But the rest of us? The Fleet! What if you fail?"

"Even games have rules, Solo. I must meet Kerrigan on my terms, and I can only do that if she is occupied elsewhere. Were I simply to surrender myself to her, the game would be forfeit. She would cow me from afar, overwhelm me with her minions and strip me of my power. Only then would I be brought before her, spent and powerless. This was the only way."

Jacen shook his head, disbelieving. All of their planning, training, hoping. It had all been false. Fodder for the Zerg Queen's game. And Tassadar had delivered them to her. He had trusted the high templar, fought alongside him, even saved him. For that, he, and _Enterprise_'s crew, everyone who had depended upon the Tassadar's knowledge and power had been thrown away.

The rock behind Tassadar's head trembled, and a minute fissure began to cut through its dusty surface. Jacen's fingers edged haltingly towards the activation stud of his lightsaber. He felt power welling up from within, not the serene strength of the Light, but something far more base. He had touched that hidden might before in his darkest hours, but now the will that normally held it back quavered, somehow weakened.

Tassadar did not retreat or cower, or even avert his gaze.

"You must trust my judgment now, Solo. Their sacrifice will not be for nothing. I will give everything I am to ensure that is so. But first, I must reach the Queen."

Jacen was barely listening. He took another step forward and raised his sword arm, leveling it straight at the Protoss. His thumb found his saber's activation stud.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Jacen shrugged it off, but it would not budge. When he tried again, it yanked him back and around, nearly taking him off of his feet. Anger burst over Jacen, and green fire erupted in his right hand.

The Master Chief held him fast at arm's length. Jacen raised his lit sword with his free arm, but the Spartan did not flinch, and his grip did not weaken. The two stared at each other, and Jacen saw himself reflected in the saber's light against polished plate, his face contorted with rage.

Breath caught in the Jedi's throat. He had not seen as much of the Dark Side as some in the Order, but he knew it well enough to see it bubbling up before his eyes.

"Are you really going to use that thing on me, Solo?" the Chief asked, his voice calm and even.

Slowly, Jacen lowered his sword arm, but he did not let the searing beam collapse.

"What's done is done. Were in this fight now, and we have our orders. Those men did their job. Now we've got to do ours."

"Sir!" The Starfleet officer by the alcove by the alcove flipped her tricorder shut.

The Chief acknowledged her with a nod, and then turned back to Jacen.

"Are you with us?"

Jacen stared at his clouded reflection for a moment longer, and then he released the stud of his weapon, closing it with a hiss.

"I am."

The Spartan's helmet dipped forward, and Jacen barely made out a whisper.

"Mourning will wait."

The Chief released the Jedi, moving to direct the debris removal without another word. As the other soldiers moved away from the ravine wall, Jacen felt as though he was coming out of a stupor. Looking down at his unlit saber, he could barely believe that it had been active only a few moments before. And yet, the anger had been so real, so powerful…

Tassadar walked past him, and Jacen felt it flare anew, but he quickly pushed back the emotion. He still did not understand or accept the Protoss' actions, but that… that was not the way.

"I'm sorry," he managed, joining the alien at the Chief's side. "I should not have done that."

"It is this place," Tassadar replied without facing the human. "Her corruption taints the very air here. It is all I can do to withstand it."

He was silent as the Starfleet officer began to calibrate her phaser, but before Jacen could reply, Tassadar turned slightly towards him.

"This is not the first time I have sacrificed valiant warriors in my pursuit of the Zerg. I have a great deal to atone for, far more than you know. The destruction of Swarm is the only thing that can bring me penance now, and I am not sure even that is enough. Perhaps I have been too focused on my goal, too willing to throw the lives of others away for it. I once fought to protect my people, but now I fear that I fight only for revenge, not for the Protoss, but for the lengths that the Swarm has pushed me to."

"Repress your anger if you feel you must, but I do not begrudge you for it. My life outside of this feud ended long ago, and I have been far too reckless for it. Too secretive. It is time that it ended. Kerrigan will die this night. After that, my life is no longer relevant."

A lance of red light shot from the officer's phaser into the alcove. Heat and energy radiated from the point of impact across the mound of boulders, and they began to glow as the weapon pumped still more energy into the rock.

Far below, the gore-strewn floor of the ravine began to tremble, and dozens of small rifts formed on its surface. One after another, claws and thorny feet burst through the sodden sand and fractured rock, and the seemingly-solid ground dissolved into a churning mass of silt and scrabbling bodies. The first Zerglings to pull themselves free immediately pelted for the far end of the raised path, chattering as they went. Others simply threw themselves at the ravine wall, clawing at the solid rock for leverage.

"Weapons free! Contacts below!" the Chief called, and the other soldiers rushed to kneel at the brink of the ledge.

"How long?" he demanded of the Starfleet officer.

"A few more seconds!" The first boulders had begun to melt away under the onslaught, matter vanishing with heat into the twilight air.

"Fire!"

Blaster bolts and phaser beams swept over the approaching Zerglings, sending them spinning off the path into the milling masses below. The valley was already filled with the vicious quadrupeds, and larger creatures were beginning to pull themselves from the bloody muck. The Chief locked the elongated head of a Hydralisk into the sight if his blaster and depressed the trigger. Four crimson bolts lashed the serpentine monstrosity, shattering its hardened skull beyond recognition.

Jacen had ignited his lightsaber once more, but he kept behind the line of soldiers. Jumping into the fray now would be suicidal, even for him. There were dozens of Zerglings pelting up the narrow path now, and hundreds more waited eagerly to follow them. Concerted fire on the winding ramp was keeping the horde at bay for a moment, but it wouldn't be long until they figured out other ways to reach their new prey.

"Put a rig on that path!" the Chief shouted, and one of his soldiers produced another jury-rigged phaser. He lobbed it ten meters down the narrow stretch, and everyone on the ledge turned away, covering their heads. The device detonated just as the foremost Zerg warrior reached it, buffeting every living thing in the ravine with noise, heat and blinding light. Only the Chief seemed able to ignore it, shielding the cutting officer as he sprayed fire at Zerglings further up the ravine.

The blast carved a sizeable hole in the rock face, obliterating a section of the path, but the Zerg continued on undaunted, leaping over it or tumbling twenty meters in the attempt.

An Alliance marine screamed and fell onto his back, clutching his face. Jacen fell on one knee at the convulsing man's side, but before he could find a medical kit, he stopped moving. His hands fell away uselessly, revealing the tail of a bone barb lodged in one eye and a visage of boiled flesh, still being consumed by the acid that had accompanied the missile.

"Hydralisks!" he shouted, reluctantly leaving the man where he had fallen.

"They're scaling the wall!" the Chief confirmed. He was leaning over the lip, hosing the unseen attackers with fire as fast as his weapon could discharge it. A hail of acid-coated, organic projectiles arced up at him in response, sending spasms of light across his battle suit's energy shield.

"Fall back! The tunnel's been cut!"

The last of the boulders had vanished, revealing a narrow passageway that led down into the inky blackness of the mountain, but the first few yards were still glowed red-hot. Urged by the Spartan, the soldiers poured into the gap anyways, gasping as they pressed through the wall of heat the phaser had left.

The crest of a Hydralisk emerged over the lip of the ledge, followed by black, glassy eyes and a snarling, skeletal maw. The Chief pumped three rounds into it, and the creature plummeted back out of sight.

He pivoted on the spot, bringing his rifle to bear on the first Zerglings to reach the overlook, but before he could fire off another shot, Jacen was among them, cleaving free limbs and heads with grim focus.

"Go!" he shouted over his shoulder as he sent another Zergling tumbling over the edge with a blast of telekinetic energy. "I'll hold them while you get Tassadar into the mountain!"

"I will not have your life on my conscience as well, Solo!" Tassadar rumbled from the entrance to the tunnel. "Come, both of you!"

Neither the Chief nor Jacen was in the mood to argue, and a moment later they had cleared the expanse of still-searing rock. Tassadar was close behind them, but he halted while the tunnel entrance was still in full view. Already, Zerg were bounding down after them, paying little heed to the heat. The Chief picked off two over Tassadar's shoulder plates, but many more were close on their heels.

"Stand back!" Tassadar bellowed, throwing out his arms and letting his cloak flow free. The fabric rippled with an unseen wind, and arcs of forked light shot from one scaled hand to the other. Jacen looked on in awe. He had never seen the Protoss' psionic energies unleashed, but he had heard accounts of the templar's duel with Darth Vader aboard _Home One_. He sensed power swell within the alien, energies both Light and Dark, and others he could barely perceive, let alone comprehend.

The crisscrossing volley of charge between the templar's hands quickened and intensified. One of the lead Zerglings leapt for the Protoss, heedless of the web of energy. To Jacen's eyes, it seemed to simply vanish, and the space it had occupied was swiftly filled by an expanding network of brilliant synapses. Then, with a crack that resonated through the rock and into the Jedi's very core, Tassadar's energies burst forward. Jacen brought his arm up to shield his eyes, and the Chief's visor polarized to its limit.

There was another crack, deeper and more physical, and a series of booms and crashes. Dust and searing air rushed down the tunnel, and then all was quiet.

The flashlight affixed to the side of the Chief's helmet flicked on, adding to the glow cast by Jacen's lightsaber. In their combined light, the quality of Tassadar's work was apparent. Only two meters up the tunnel, and fresh pile of distressed boulders and loose gravel filled the space from floor to ceiling. The Chief cast his light above them, wary of residual deformations in the rock, but the tunnel seemed otherwise intact.

Slowly, Tassadar lowered his arms and turned to face them. His eyes were dimmer than they usually were, half-closed. He took a few tentative steps, swayed, and then caught himself.

"That took more of me than I had hoped," he said, his words coming slowly. "But I am far from spent. Come, let us catch the others. Our fight is not over."

The tunnel was barely tall enough for Tassadar to move without stooping and only wide enough to accommodate two of them at a time, but the floor was solid and even, angled steadily downward in a relatively straight course. The walls bore the same gouge-marks as the pass Tassadar had found, and Jacen could only assume the tunnel had been carved by the Zerg when Kerrigan had chosen the mountain as her citadel.

The room in which they found the seven remaining Allied soldiers was a different matter entirely. The tunnel stopped abruptly, opening onto the side of a low-ceilinged, rectangular chamber little wider than the interior of a Starfleet shuttlecraft and twice as long. It was still hewn of the dull stone of the mountain, but it looked more like the interior of a starship than a roughly-cut Zerg hole. The floor and ceiling were perfectly flat and regular, and the walls were carved with blocky, vertical pillars and shot with bands of silvery metal that glinted in the artificial light. A large, empty alcove dominated the far wall, and next to it, the rectangular maw of a door opened onto darkness. Both the door and the alcove were marred by slash marks and signs of deformation, and shards of metal lay scattered on the floor around each.

"Secure, soldier?" the Chief asked, ignoring the sudden abnormality of their surroundings.

"Yes, sir. We haven't seen or heard anything since we ran in here. What about the ones behind us?"

"The entrance is blocked, but there are probably just as many crawling around down here. Keep your guard up."

"What is this place?" another soldier asked, carefully keeping his phaser trained on the doorway even as he marveled at the precise geometry of the wall supports.

"This is no Zerg construction," Tassadar said, genuinely startled by the chamber's appearance.

Jacen kneeled to pick up a tiny piece of metal that had settled into the dust at his feet. It sparkled in a vaguely crystalline manner as he turned it over on his palm.

"And not a Federation one, either, I'm guessing. It looks too old."

The Chief didn't take his hands off his rifle, but he too peered into the room's perfect corners and regular alcoves.

_It almost looks like… _

A keening cry echoed from beyond the darkened doorway, and each member of the unit froze, eyes and gunsights locked on the entryway. A new howling joined it, and then another. There was a sound of distant scrabbling, talons on metal or stone, a last, sharp clack, and silence once more. Peripherally, the Chief noticed that both Tassadar and Jacen bored pained expressions.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Psionic backlash," Tassadar replied, peering up at the flattened ceiling. "Those cries were made by Zerg without guidance, confused and directionless. A Cerebrate has been destroyed."

Jacen looked at the Chief. "Truul and Worf!"

The Spartan immediately activated his helm transmitter. Zerg interference had made long-range communications impossible for over an hour, but if the Cerebrates contributed to the disruption…

"Beta, do you read?"

Nothing but static.

The Chief switched channels.

"Gamma, are you receiving?"

A series of rapid clicks, and then static again.

"I repeat, Unit Beta, do you…"

Abruptly, the static increased in volume, and a familiar voice materialized from the background noise.

"Damn straight, I copy ya, Sierra! Sounds like you're half a parsec away, but I copy!"

"What's your status, beta? Have you reached the secondary?"

"We got there all right, and cleared out just about fifteen seconds ago! Wasn't a pleasant sight, and we wanted to clear out before the clean-up crew arrived."

The Chief glanced over at Tassadar. "Confirm, the secondary target has been neutralized?"

There was a burst a static, and something that sound like a like muffled explosion obscured Truul's voice momentarily.

"…looks like they're not letting us off so easy after all. But yes, we got it. Gamma and mine got under the damn thing's anti-air. Don't know how, but we did. Hard fighting, and both units are down to less than half-strength, but we cleared out the anti-air from the ground and painted up the secondary. That's where our boys in the air came in. I couldn't reach 'em on comms, but the flares we sent up were good enough it looks like. You should see…"

The Chief cut Truul off. "Are Beta and Gamma fully airborne?"

"Affirmative, Sierra. We've got the shuttles packed and we're angling on your vector. The Zerg up here took a hit from the secondary, it looks like, but there are still a hell of a lot of 'em. As long as we have the squadron, though…"

"Beta, Sierra and Alpha have breached the primary, but we lost most of our units. The target LZ is hot, repeat hot. We had to bypass the main entry vector for a side passage, on the ridge above the ravine floor. Strafe the LZ, repeat, fire it, offload your troops, and follow us in. The way may be still blocked. I repeat, clear the obstruction and follow us in with all available forces. Do you copy?"

There was no reply but static.

The Chief tried the link several more times, and then shook his head.

"Jamming's resumed."

"Did it get through?" Jacen asked.

"We can't wait here to find out." He turned to the others. "Move on that exit, and stay together! We don't know what's in there. Tassadar?"

The Protoss looked off into space, and shook his head at length.

"I can't be sure where she is. There is another Cerebrate in here as well, and its presence is shielding her."

"Then we'll have to bypass it," the Chief said, checking the capacitors of his blaster. "Or kill it."

"It lies directly ahead of us, and below."

"Let's get moving, then. Praxal, Richardson, you're on point with me."

Jacen and Tassadar lagged slightly behind the others as they readied to leave.

"You have something else to say?" the Protoss asked, drawing his cloak tightly around him once more, as if warding off a draft none of the others could feel.

"Tassadar, back there, in the tunnel, and before, I sensed darkness in you, and light. They were at war, as they are in me, sometimes, and yet you controlled them both, used both energies. I know your power is different from the Force, but… how can both exist within you like that?"

The templar stopped to stare down at the human, and a chilling sensation ran up his spine.

"I cannot speak of your Force, Jedi. But I will never claim to control the energies within me. I am but a conduit, open to light and dark, and they flow through to me as they will. They are powers beyond comprehension, and to deny either is to throw everything out of balance. Try to follow only one, if you will. I did once, long ago. But now I take both, ride their conflicting course, guide them toward the path I deem true and hope they follow. Light and dark lend me their power, when it is to be had, but they do not dominate my destiny. I alone can do that."

* * *

As much as the world that it orbited, Earth's moon was a graveyard. The domed cities and research hubs that had grown up across its pockmarked surface over centuries of peaceful and prosperous Federation rule had been among the first Zerg targets after Kerrigan had claimed Earth, and now only blackened craters and derelict tramways remained. Debris from two desperate battles had added new hollows to its already-marred surface and scattered melted fragments across pristine gray plains. The newest conflict promised more of both, and already the satellite's weak gravity was guiding ruined forms towards its bald, lifeless face.

With the entirety of both Allied and Zerg forces engaged closer to Earth, the moon and its orbital perimeter were quiet and motionless.

But they were not devoid of life.

The streamlined forms of thirty Romulan warbirds slid cautiously from the far side of the satellite. Each ship in the tight, stacked formation was completely enveloped in its characteristic cloaking shield, and none but the most sensitive gravitational sensor could have detected their arrival. With the barest bursts of ionized discharge, carefully filtered so as to appear as simple background radiation, the warships slowed their forward momentums in unison and gradually came to a halt. All but hugging the lunar surface, they had paused just beyond its gentle arc. The night face of Earth drifted before them, serene save for the occasional, fleeting discharge of light.

The _Agrona_ sat at the heart of the formation, its wide-swept, avian hull just as cool and outwardly undetectable as those of its companions. Its transmitter arrays and running lights all lay inactive; not even the most subtle ship-to-ship message was to be risked while combat was so near. Only passive sensors remained active, but they alone were enough to relay the gravity of the battle that still raged in Earth's shadow. All other eyes of the task force were fixed upon the conflict.

But those aboard the _Agrona_, for the moment, were oblivious to it.

Groggily, Commander Suran ran a hand across his face. He attempted to open his eyes, but the dim illumination of his bridge forced them shut again. His head was swimming so badly that he tried and failed to form a coherent word, but a vigorous shake sent feeling through his body. Sensing his command chair beneath him, he leaned forward and tried his eyes once more. The blinding glare quickly faded, and he was met with the familiar, orderly operations center of his command.

"What's happened?" he demanded of no one in particular, rising tentatively from his chair. "Operations, report!"

His command crew was in the process of picking themselves from the deck, and none seemed to be any more cognizant of the situation than he was. Trying not to stumble over control interfaces and their attending officers, Suran made his way to his second-in-command, who was busy helping a navigational officer to her feet.

"What's going on here, subcommander?" Suran asked, making way as his other subordinate offered a self-conscious salute and hurried back to her station.

"I am not certain, commander," his second replied, turning to the closest interface and hunching over it urgently. "The last I remember, we had just reached the Federation Neutral Zone. You were just about to open a comm line with the commander of the _Doerank_, and then…"

The subcommander trailed off, looked up at Suran with a mixture of confusion and apology, and then turned back to his interface.

Suran turned back to the rest of his bridge crew. "Give me our position, now! Where is the rest of the task force?"

The commander was an experienced and level-headed soldier, but he ran an orderly ship, and liked it that way. Nothing like this had happened during his entire service in the Imperial Fleet.

"Sensors are online, sir! Checking our position now!"

"Commander, I'm getting alerts from across the ship! Section executives are all reporting black-outs among the crew!"

"Get me status reports from each of them!" Suran demanded. "Tactical, bring us to full alert!"

"The Zerg, sir?" Suran's second suggested. "Could they have hit us with some new weapon?"

"Commander! The _Agrona_ is already at battle readiness!"

Suran whirled on the tactical officer.

"We are at stealth stations, sir! The ship is under full cloak!" the man continued.

The commander strode over to his station.

"Under who's orders?"

The officer shook his head. "Yours, sir."

"But I never…"

"Sir, I have our position! We're no longer in the Neutral Zone. New coordinates…"

The officer began to list of numbers, but the ship's second pushed him aside and peered at the navigational display.

"Sector 001, Commander!" he called out after a few seconds. "The Sol System!"

"Earth!"

A thousand different thoughts burst upon Suran's brain. This was place he had sacrificed the Romulan alliance with the rest of the quadrant and pushed aside his personal inclinations to avoid, and yet there they were. The last he could remember, he had been light-years away, leading his forces back to the relative safety of the Star Empire, but…

"How did we…?"

He shook his head, and then moved to the command chair.

"Never mind that now. Is the rest of the task force with us?"

It was a credit to his crew that they were able to move from delirious half-consciousness into battle readiness in little more than a minute, but it was nothing more than what he expected of them. They were officers in the Romulan Fleet, the best of the best. If this was a Zerg trick, the devils would regret not finishing them off while they were all helpless.

"I'm reading twenty-nine other warbirds flanking us, sir, standard fringe formation. We are still with the task force."

"There are reports of a few minor feedback errors in the long-range sensors and the computer core, but all major systems are nominal, commander. There are no reports of significant casualties in the lower decks."

If this was a surprise attack, Suran mused, it was a very poorly executed one.

"Are we in scanning range of the human homeworld?"

"Yes, sir. The task force is just above the planet's moon."

"Show me."

Earth's night side filled the bridge's main viewscreen. Suran leaned forward, his attention attracted by the distant obvious flashes of a pitched battle.

"So, it has begun already," he muttered to himself. "Magnify quadrant five."

The profile of Earth vanished, and a great double-orb of minute shapes replaced it, lit irregularly by a cascade of dashes and lances of red and green light.

"How many ships are engaged there?"

"At least three hundred, sir, mostly of Federation or Klingon construction. Sensors also detect several hundred smaller contacts, identical to the living missiles the Zerg used during their assault on Romulus." The officer took a moment to confirm his readings. "The ships appear to be divided into two opposing formations. The larger, numbering some two hundred vessels, is evidently in the process of enveloping the smaller and trapping it against the planet's gravity well."

Suran felt an unexpected glimmer of hope.

"Where are the Zerg missiles concentrated?"

"Within the interior formation, sir."

Suran leaned back in his chair and suppressed a sigh.

_You should have listened, Picard. This assault was suicide. _

"Sir."

Suran looked over to see his second approach, face creased with confusion.

"Have you determined how we got here, Subcommander Dural?"

"The diagnostic logs indicate that the inhabited decks simultaneously decompressed as the _Agrona_ entered the Federation Neutral Zone, incapacitating the crew. Technical is still working on the subsequent logs, but it is clear that life support only normalized a few minutes ago. Navigation recorded a course correction directly for Sector 001 at maximum warp velocity immediately after decompression."

Suran frowned. "Was the ship commandeered? Are there intruders aboard?"

"None have been detected thus far, sir, but the marine detachment is conducting ongoing sweeps." Dural shook his head slowly. "Sir, the ship recorded both the decompression and the course change as being executed with your voice authorization."

"I gave no such orders."

"Yes, sir. There's more. I also checked the transmission logs. There has been one outgoing transmission from this ship since the decompression, directed at the rest of the task force. Audio and visual. From you, sir."

Suran's lips pursed into a tight line. "Put it onscreen.

Dural gestured to a waiting officer, and the viewscreen switched to freeze-frame of Suran himself, backed by a view of the _Agrona_'s bridge. There was a brief pause, and then the image came to life.

"All ships of the Second Expeditionary Task Force, this is Commander Suran. I have received new instructions from Romulus. We are to alter course for Sector 001, infiltrate the primary system, and taking up holding stations at coordinates included in this transmission. This deployment is class one covert, and as such, there will be no further ship-to-ship communications of any sort until the objective is reached. Full stealth precautions are to be initiated. Do not engage hostile contacts unless you are engaged, and do not reveal the location of the _Agrona_ under any circumstances. Fallback coordinates will follow. That is all."

The message ended abruptly, and Suran caught several of his crew cast uncertain glances his way. The speaker's appearance, mannerisms, and diction had been identical to his own. Except…

"That bluish distortion, near the beginning of the transmission…"

"Yes, commander. The technical division is analyzing it right now."

Suran stroked his cheek thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the frozen image of him. It was obviously a fake, a projection of some sort, but he could not conceive how it had worked its way into the _Agrona_'s comm system.

"There must be an intruder aboard. Lock down the non-essential sections, and double the guard."

"At once, sir."

"We shall deal with this later. Now, raise the rest of the fleet. Tell them…"

Suran trailed off. What _did_ he want to tell them? Whatever had brought him halfway across Federation space, it had given him another opportunity to join Picard and the rest in their final stand against the Zerg. Judging by what he had seen of the battle, they needed the help, desperately.

Of course, the rationale for his withdrawal from their alliance was just as valid as it had been days before. Even with the aid of his forces, the Zerg would still command numerical superiority, and Suran had no idea if they had reinforcements incoming. More than likely, the Allied fleet was doomed, and any effort to assist them would be suicide.

_You must understand, Suran, that if we join you, we will have been defeated. A kinder fall, perhaps, but in the end, the result would be the same._

Picard's parting words had haunted Suran since the task force had left Deep Space Nine, and he still couldn't shake the human's determined face from his mind. The commander had seen Romulan worlds defiled by the Zerg, and the idea of abandoning an opportunity to strike a mortal blow to the monsters, fleeing to the relative safety of the Empire's borders while humans, Cardassians, even Klingons fought on…

"Sir?" Dural prompted.

Suran stared at the officer. He, and the rest of the crew, would follow him unquestioningly, no matter which path he chose. They were good soldiers, and no doubt many of them silently wished to bring the fight back to the invaders.

But this was not the time. He would not see them die in a hopeless battle, no matter how righteous.

"Tell them to break from orbit, full impulse. We're heading back home. This is a fight we cannot win."

The bridge viewscreen flickered, and several displays at the back of bridge went blank for an instant, and then resumed their previous tasks.

Before Suran could question the momentary disruption, the tactical stations came alive with activity.

"What is it?"

"Commander, I'm detecting a large number of vessels approaching at high warp. At least seventy, possibly more.

"Range?"

"They've already entered the star system, sir. They will reach the lunar perimeter in under a minute."

"What? Why didn't you detect them before?"

"I'm not certain, sir. Our proximity to the planet's moon may be reducing the range of our long-range sensors, but…"

"Well, it's of little consequence now. Can you identify them?"

"The warp signatures appear to be human and Klingon in origin, sir."

"The Alliance wouldn't have mounted this attack piecemeal," Suran said, leaning forward.

"Zerg reinforcements?" Dural ventured, still at his side.

Suran nodded, his frown deepening. The Allied assault was utterly lost now. All he could do was keep his men from being swept up in the slaughter.

"Open the comm. We're leaving, now."

"Sir!" the tactical officer's consternation was palpable. "The incoming ships have dropped from warp. They're almost on top of us, range thirty thousand kilometers!"

"Calm yourself, centurion. Our cloaking shields are still online. Put them onscreen."

The viewscreen flickered to life, and a wall of Starfleet vessels and Klingon warships filled it. As the bridge crew watched, the massed fleet began to spread out, and the space between each vessel was filled by a cloud of tiny, winged forms. Suran felt a twang of dread, invisibility or no. He hadn't realized that the Zerg possessed so many ships, much less could afford to keep them in reserve.

"One hundred and twenty ships, commander, and hundreds more of the organic missiles. They appear to be spreading out and moving towards our position."

Suran clenched the armrest of his chair tightly. "They're moving on _our_ position?"

"Yes, sir. The formation has closed to twenty-five thousand kilometers."

"They're pinning us against the moon…" Suran heard Dural mutter, and he felt inclined to agree. Cloaking shields or not, the Zerg fleet was angling directly for Earth's satellite, not the battle above the planet.

Slowly, Suran rose and walked towards the viewscreen as the wall of enemy ships inexorably approached. Before his eyes, the gap between the colossal formation and the lunar surface closed to a sliver. Other ships moved just as quickly, plainly intent on Suran's other avenues of escape.

They were trapped. Somehow, the Zerg had detected the task force, and now they were pressed between a countless kilograms of rock and one of the largest fleets Suran had ever seen.

The game was up, and there was only one option left to him.

"What should I tell the fleet, sir?" Dural asked earnestly.

"Tell them…" Even now, Picard's steadfast expression stuck in his mind's eye. "Tell them to disengage their cloaks, divert all power to weapons and shields, and form up on the _Agrona_. I'm not about to die hiding, and I'd rather make a stand with a human at my back than smashed against this blasted rock."

Subcommander Dural's lip fell in surprise, but he caught himself and saluted smartly.

"Helm, take us into the Earthward Zerg line, full impulse!"

Suran thought he saw a small smile on his second's face as he moved to oversee the order, and he couldn't help share a bit of the sentiment. If the Zerg had the resources arrayed against his force at their disposal, falling back to Romulan space would have only delayed this encounter. Stealth and calculation had had their place. Now he would show the invaders what the price of their conquest would truly be.

* * *

"Admiral, the _Enterprise_ has broken from the main battle line!"

Nechayev peered through the acrid smoke of a fried navigation console at the distant form of the _Sovereign_-class vessel as it skirted around a pair of badly damaged _Galaxy_-class ships and shot towards the slivery lunar disk.

"The fool is going after K'Nera!" she snarled. "Get me a link with Picard. Now! And get more ships on our starboard flank!"

The _Versailles_ rocked violently as a lucky photon torpedo exploded just aft.

Nechayev's operation's officer shook his head. "Sir, the main communications array is still down from the last volley. Engineering is switching to auxiliaries, but we won't have it back for another few minutes, at least."

The admiral slammed her fist against her chair.

"Damn him! We'll lose both of them now! What does he think he's proving?"

The bridge shook again, harder this time, and a lighting panel on the bridge's upper half exploded, sending crewers fleeing from the sparks.

"Admiral, we can't take much more of this!" Commander Slovach shouted over the din as she helped the remaining navigational officer back into his chair. "Shields are down to forty-two percent! We have to fall back! Let the reserve squadrons move forward!"

"We don't have many reserves left, Commander!" Nechayev shouted back.

"We won't do anyone any good if we're dead, sir! The Fleet needs you! N'Kera's probably gone, and Picard…!"

A direct phaser triggered a chorus of warning klaxons, drowning Slovach out. The captain silenced them with an irritated jab at her seat's interface.

"All right, commander! You've made your point! Helm, take us back to the reserve position! Tell Captain Gehirn to take her ships forward and cover us!"

The admiral watched as a flight of Starfleet vessel, each almost as badly damaged as her own, moved past her viewscreen, straight into a volley of missiles from the ever-advancing Zerg front. Slovach was right; the _Versailles_' engineering teams needed time to make repairs. But time was something they were running out of, just as fast as the Fleet lost ships. At their current loss rate, there wouldn't be anything left of it in under twenty minutes. And if they lost the _Enterprise_, the last vestiges of morale among her crews would vanish.

"Damn him," she whispered. The _Enterprise_ would have met the Zerg ships pursuing the remnants of Battle Group Qo'nos by now. It wouldn't take long. One ship couldn't withstand the Zerg onslaught alone, no matter who captained it or what its name was.

"Sir… Admiral Nechayev, I've lost the _Enterprise_," the sensor officer reported haltingly.

The other members of the bridge crew looked up from their stations. Nechayev's eyes fell.

"…no, wait a moment." The lieutenant smacked his interface in frustration, and then began jabbing at it again. "The long-range sensors seem to be malfunctioning. Yes, I've got it again! And… wait…"

Slovach stalked around towards the man from the other side of the bridge, wiping sweat and soot from her forehead.

"Lieutenant, if the station is malfunctioning…"

"Sir, it's not the station… There! I've got it! And… Romulan signatures?"

"What?" Both Nechayev and Slovach shouted in unison, and in a moment both were looking over the lieutenant's shoulders.

"Yes! Thirty Romulan warbirds, _D'deridex_ and _Valdore_-class!"

"Suran," Nechayev whispered.

"But how…?" Slovach began.

Nechayev was already running back to her command chair.

"How did they get here? How did Picard know they would come? We'll just have to ask them ourselves, won't we? Let's make sure we have the chance to chat! This isn't quite over!"

_Damn him. _

* * *

Nestled deep within the _Agrona_'s computer core, Cortana looked on through the ship's sensors as thirty fresh, Romulan warship swept into rear of the Zerg line. As the reactor of the first infested ship ignited like a thermonuclear firework, the AI loosed a sigh of relief. Or rather, she would have if she wasn't currently a collection of data packets circulating through the warbird's central routing junction. There was a very real chance that the Zerg would rally and turn on the unexpected reinforcements, annihilating her matrix in the process, but at that moment, she didn't let the danger bother her, and sat back to enjoy the show.

For the first time in days, Cortana didn't entirely loathe her surroundings. When she had first heard Picard's contingency plan, just after the loss of the _Republica_, she had been all for it; after all, she had, quite literally, been built to infiltrate alien computer systems. As the captain had expected, Suran had decided to withdraw from the Allied Fleet, and she had hitched a ride on the last transmission between the _Enterprise_ and the _Agrona_.

It had been a tight fit; the message had been only a terse navigational intent statement, and she had lost a few lengths of accessory coding in the process. That, she had expected; it was the loneliness that had turned her off. The warbird had no artificial intellect to speak of, only a few relatively basic defensive algorithms and an entirely bland coordinating system. Knocking out the crew, fabricating a message to guide the rest of the task force to Earth, and conjuring up a phantom armada of omniscient Zerg to trap Suran had been _too_ easy. Give her a hostile Covenant AI any day, if only for the company.

The Romulan fleet was worthy of its reputation – in combat, at least – Cortana was still surprised how easily their unquestioning chain of command had enable her to seize the entire task force. Already, it had swept through Zerg's outer perimeter and overtaken a handful of beleaguered Klingon warships. And with them…

_The Enterprise! _

A more welcome sight Cortana hadn't seen since she'd last slipped from the Master Chief's familiar neural interface. She began collecting the tendrils of her consciousness from the various system hubs she'd hacked and migrated towards the communications network. The sooner someone tossed a hurried salutation or status request the _Enterprise_'s way, the better. Sheltered as she was deep in the _Agrona_'shardware, Cortana didn't relish the idea of being around when Suran opened a line to one of his escorts and found out that the Zerg reinforcements had been nothing more than sensor artifacts and a bit of artistry with the bridge viewscreen's combat log.

Hopefully, Suran would be too thick in the fighting when he finally found out to try and withdraw. Still, Cortana didn't envy the unfortunate individual standing at the _Agrona_'s bridge sensor station…

An unheard order activated the ship's primary communications grid, and the AI was gone.


	52. Chapter Seventy

**Chapter Seventy**

One by one, the ten remaining members of Alpha and Sierra units moved down a long, enclosed corridor, silent as the countless tons of rock that hemmed them in on all sides. The Master Chief led the company, his keen eyes scanning the path ahead for any interruptions in the smooth, geometric lines of the octagonal passageway. The bland sameness of the space contrasted sharply with the frantic spasms of activity that crowded the short-range motion tracker of his helmet's HUD; masses of Zerg somewhere above or below, or the composition of the mountain and its unlikely interior structure, had rendered it useless. Similarly, the helmet's integrated flashlight sat inactive; lambent nodes embedded in the narrow corridor's walls cast the space in dusky, bluish light.

Behind him, Jacen, Tassadar, and their diminished escort of Alliance marines and Starfleet officers kept pace. Like the rest, the Jedi held his weapon at the ready, but his apprehension over their continued descent into Kerrigan's fortress was mitigated by simple curiosity. Jacen wasn't sure what he had expected the heart of the Zerg hive to look like, but he certainly hadn't imagined subtly-carved, mathematically-precise passageways and anterooms reminiscent of Coruscanti museums. Even the Federation members of the party seemed confused by the network's presence, and a passing scan of the Chief revealed an even stronger, if carefully restrained, sense of astonishment.

Next to the impending threat of the Swarm, however, the strange architecture seemed almost welcoming, and when the Spartan had guided them from the darkness of a larger passage into the almost claustrophobic area, no one had objected. The sudden illumination of the tunnel by some unseen trigger had seemed more comfort than threat; the further Jacen progressed, the more the Jedi felt as though the mountain's interior structure was quite disparate from its Zerg occupiers, and beyond even their dark mistress.

Perhaps it was just the twilight illumination and the steady, almost imperceptible hum that resonated from the plated floor. They seemed undeniably… permanent, more than any living being could be.

The Master Chief slowed to a stop, and the rest followed suit. Before them, the way was blocked by a sealed doorway. A pair of narrow windows was set in its surface, but all that was visible beyond them was the same eerie dusk that filled the corridor. Eight pairs of hands leveled blasters and phasers at the barrier, and the Spartan took a tentative step forward.

Obediently, the door split into three segments and vanished into the walls and ceiling, revealing a small, circular chamber adorned only by a single, central pillar.

"A dead end?" one of the Starfleet officers, Richardson, asked as the group filed into the room. The space was barely large enough to accommodate them all, and there appeared to be no other hatches or doorways that would permit further progress.

The Chief did not reply immediately. Instead, he rounded the central pillar, scanning its streamlined, mechanical surface intently. Finally, he found what he was looking for: an illuminated, rectangular panel, precisely at waist-height. Shifting his rifle, the Chief extended his right palm towards the panel, and just before he touched it, Jacen thought he saw the outline of a humanoid hand on the surface.

There was a hiss of ancient hydraulics from above, and the members of the party drew back from the central column. A puff of pressurized gas escaped its upper seam, and the entire cylinder retracted into the ceiling with dull thud. The movement revealed a sizeable hole in the floor, down which was visible an inclined shaft of indeterminate length.

The Chief turned to Tassadar. "The Cerebrate is below us?"

"It is."

The Spartan inspected what was visible of the shaft for a moment, slid his rifle onto the magnetic clamps affixed to the back of his armor, and removed the compact blaster pistol from his hip.

"If the shaft is safe and the landing secure, I'll call back up. If not, find another way to the Cerebrate. Don't waste our time looking for me."

"Sir…" one of the Allied soldiers ventured apprehensively, but the Spartan had already slipped into the hole.

The sound of metal on metal echoed back up the shaft for a few seconds, and then stopped. Jacen reached out, trying to follow the Chief's life force, but before he could find him again…

"Clear!"

"All right," the Jedi said, relieved. "One at a time, now." He gestured to Tassadar. "High Templar?"

The Protoss slid into the opening without complaint and the rest followed, most easing their way into the dark shaft with obvious trepidation. When the last had vanished, Jacen counted a few breaths, and then swung his legs over the gap. Inhaling, he let go, and let the steep, metallic incline guide him down. Almost immediately, Jacen made out new light beyond his feet, but before the sensation could even fully register, an all-too-familiar feeling shot up his spine.

_Danger_.

A few seconds later, the Jedi hit the ground at a crouch with his lightsaber ablaze. A quick look around the new chamber yielded only the surprised faces of the other members of the squad, still in the process of recovering from the lengthy fall, so Jacen turned his attention upward. Three meters above his head, the shaft yawned, narrow and empty, but the abrupt sound of scrabbling held his focus there. A moment later, the tusked, beady-eyed bulk of a Zergling plummeted straight downward at Jacen's head, its spiky limbs flailing.

An upward slash and swift sideways roll ensured that the Jedi escaped the beast unharmed and that it was dead before it finished its fall, but the creature was only the first to tumble from the shaft. Within a few moments, three more Zerglings had dropped upon their slain brood-mate.

The Chief and the other soldiers were quick to respond, backing to the encircling wall and focusing fire on the center of the small chamber, and the trio fell before they could move more than a few steps. Jacen scrambled to his feet, keenly aware that he was well within their field of fire.

"Solo!"

The Chief's shout coincided with another burst of premonition, and Jacen spun back towards the smoking heap, but before he could react further, his legs fell out from underneath him. One of the creatures must have only been stunned by the initial volley, and had thrown itself at him upon recovering.

Jacen pushed out with the Force to break his fall, but a slash of pain across his thigh shattered his focus, and he tumbled onto exposed belly of one of the other Zerg minions. In an instant, the creature was on top of him, and he felt the serrated hide of one of its forelimbs rip across his left cheek. Realizing that the fall had knocked his lightsaber from his grasp, Jacen pushed up against the beast's center mass, trying to avoid its gaping, toothy maw.

Before he could summon the pulse of pressure needed repel the Zergling, an impact drove the creature full onto his chest, knocking Jacen's breath away and prompting a throaty yelp from his attacker.

The two lay stunned for a moment as the air filled with the sound of energy discharges. One of the beast's glassy, red eyes was pressed centimeters from Jacen's own. A burst of sensation swept over the Jedi. The same manifestation of empty malice and hunger that he had sensed in the Zerg on the approach to Kerrigan's fortress was here to, but now it appeared to be nothing more than a flimsy veil. Beyond it, a greater entity dwelled, a being with an intelligence of its own, and for a moment their minds touched.

_They are close._

Fear that was not his own tore at Jacen, and the Zergling howled. The thing reeled back, and the pressure on the Jedi's chest lessened. Acting on instinct, Jacen summoned all the energy he could to the small space between their bodies and pushed. The creature shot backward through the air for a full meter before grinding into the metallic floor and coming to a stop in a confused heap.

Pulling himself to one knee, Jacen looked about him to see that two more Zerg bodies had joined their fellows on the growing mound at the room's center. Several others had made it to the encircling line of Allied soldiers, and Jacen saw one leap for a pair of Alliance marines. Skirting around the pile of Zerg corpses, he spied the hilt of his lightsaber next to the body of the first fallen Zergling and summoned it to his outstretched palm with barely a thought.

The report of a blaster rifle cut the air, and the Zergling Jacen had spotted collapsed onto one of the soldiers. He grunted under the sudden weight, but immediately began to extricate himself, apparently uninjured. Jacen looked back towards the origin of the shot, and caught sight of the Chief. He stood by the chamber's single exit, through which the rest of the squad was hurriedly stumbling.

The Spartan gestured to him earnestly, but another pulse of insight pulled Jacen's attention to the other side of the small chamber. In a flash, he perceived the spiny back of yet another Zergling, and beneath it, Tassadar's robed form. With a shout, Jacen charged towards his companion, ready to tear the beast from him, but he stopped short after only a few steps. The air around the Zergling seemed to crack with energy, and both Zerg and Protoss glowed white. Light burst from the creature's thick hide in an expanding web of brilliance, and with a crack, it fell away. When the glare cleared, all that remained of the attacker was a smear of gore across the curving wall.

Tassadar stepped quickly past the remains without a second look and moved past Jacen towards the door. The Jedi's eyes lingered on the bloody smudge for a moment before he followed.

_The power of the dark with the control of the light._

Tassadar's power was alien, and yet it still awed him as much as any feat of his old masters.

The corridor beyond the chamber was identical to the one they had left levels above. The Chief, Tassadar, and the others pelted along it as quickly as they could, eager to put some distance between themselves and the shaft before any more Zerg could emerge. As Jacen sought to catch up, a flare of pain on his side reminded Jacen of the gouge on his thigh. He glanced at the bloody gash, and tried to focus on the blood flowing into his lower extremities. The bleeding slowed, but he kept on running and it did not cease entirely. He would have to leave it until they had a moment to rest. The pain also lessened, but his lower body still tingled with it.

He could feel no poison flowing from the wound. Jacen grimaced. There was that, at least.

Pulling up behind Tassadar, Jacen called to him.

"I sensed the Cerebrate back there."

"We are almost upon it," Tassadar replied without breaking his long, powerful stride. "And it knows we are here. It must be eliminated quickly, before the brunt of the Queen's vanguard is brought upon us."

"Will we be able to face it directly?" Jacen asked. "It must be well-defended, and we don't have that much manpower. I don't know about the Chief, but the others are wearing down, and I can only fight so many."

"I do not think that the creature expected any intruder to penetrate this far. We must be cautious, but…"

Tassadar trailed off, and to Jacen it looked as though the Protoss was lost in thought.

"What is it?" Jacen asked, moving closer.

The templar faltered. "It is calling… he is calling to me."

"The Cerebrate is trying to communicate?"

Tassadar did not turn his head. "No… it is nothing. We will be able to reach the creature, but we must hurry. There is little time."

The templar raised his voice. "Spartan, the next doorway!"

A small door mounted in the right wall led them into a somewhat more spacious passageway, lit with the same bluish light but brighter than the others had been. There was also a familiar, fetid tang in the air, and the arching walls and plated floor bore more scrapes and claw marks.

"Do you hear that?" one of the soldiers ahead of Jacen whispered to a companion.

As they advanced quickly along the gradually-curving passage, the sound became more apparent: wind, and faint echoes. It was like they were approaching an exit to the mountain, and yet Jacen knew that they had to be hundreds of meters deep within its stony bulk. More ominously, the Jedi was beginning to perceive individual glimmers of life ahead of them, resolving from the mass of clouded activity that had pressed upon him since the squad had penetrated Kilimanjaro. Among them, one emerged with particular clarity, the same that he had touched vicariously only minutes before. Jacen drew back from it, attempting to minimize his own psychic presence.

"Do not restrain your senses, Jedi," Tassadar said, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. "It already knows that I am coming, and it perceives only me. I have made sure of that."

Abruptly, the passageway straightened out, and the floor inclined upward steeply. Above them, the roof gave way, revealing a vaulted ceiling of dark stone and patterned metal far above. They crept up the incline in tight formation, each with their weapon at the ready, but the broad space beyond presented no obvious foes.

The unit emerged into what appeared to be a sort of nexus. Behind and far in front of them, walls like vertical cliffs towered dozens of meters until they met the ceiling. The base of each was studded with small doors and inclined openings like their own. Higher up, rows of protrusions extruded from the flat surface, some like open pipes, others sealed hatches studded by rhythmically-blinking lights. A broad causeway stretched to either side between the walls, hemmed in by the blank, imposing faces of twin gates. The left barrier was set into a third, huge wall, but the right was built into a sheer rampart that extended less than halfway to the ceiling. Beyond it, the vaulted ceiling transformed into the underside of a shallow dome, from which most of the huge chamber's illumination seemed to emanate.

The group formed up around Tassadar and moved quietly onto the causeway. The soldiers at the perimeter swept their weapons back and forth over closed doorways and imposing columns, conscious of the slightest movement of sound. A gentle breeze brushed past from them from the domed area, and Jacen realized that the current must have been born of the room's ventilation systems. Unfortunately, the circulator seemed incapable of dealing with the growing stench of exposed flesh.

"Watch those openings," the Chief warned, nodding at the protruding, pipe-like structures high above them. "I've been surprised by them before."

Jacen shot a quizzical glance at the Spartan, but he seemed not to notice it.

"The right wall," Tassadar said. "The Cerebrate is just beyond it."

"But where are its guards?" a Starfleet officer asked, stepping over a particularly deep gouge in the floor. "And their black growth? The creep?"

The Protoss looked from the far wall to the man. He stared back nervously, but Tassadar seemed lost in thought once again.

"The creep is corrosive. It will consume all that is not Zerg in time. The Queen… she wanted this place to remain intact."

"What? Why?"

Tassadar closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened then again. "No. No, we must hurry. Come, to the wall."

The right gate sat fully sealed, but as they approached, a pair of smaller openings to either side of the main entrance came into view, set into low blocks of protruding dark stone. Careful to avoid full view of the smaller entry points, the group came to a halt at one of the house-sized protrusions, and the Chief stepped forward. He sized the barrier wall up carefully, taking in the blocks, both of which were less than a meter taller than he was, as well as the construct's other sparse features.

"There's another raised platform set against the wall above this protrusion," the Spartan said at last. "The wall is inclined near the top. I should be able to climb up and reconnoiter the area before we advance. The rest of you, hold position here."

Jacen offered no complaint, and Tassadar seemed lost within his own head once again. With the soldiers, they moved up against the wall, trying to make the open corner at the base of the sheer barrier as defensible as possible. Behind them, the Chief stowed his weapon, and with a single standing leap, caught hold of the lip of the protrusion and hefted his half-ton weight up with little effort. With practiced finesse, he silently moved across the flat roof, scaled the secondary platform, and then shimmied up the inclined crest of the wall. The barrier arched skyward at almost ninety degrees, so the Spartan was forced to lodge his back against the vertical face of the adjoining wall and laboriously wedge his way up with carefully-coordinated movement of his legs and left arm, but he reached the top nonetheless, with surprising speed.

After securing himself to the barrier's upper edge, the Chief's optically-enhanced visor took in everything that lay below. Thirty meters away the causeway gave way to a huge circular platform, anchored far below the dome they had seen below. The source of its illumination was now apparent; a sizeable hole marked the platform's center, and through this gap a continuous beam of blue-white light rose up until it disappeared into some sort of emitter affixed to the dome's apex. The platform itself seemed to be quite barren.

A large alcove flanked either side of the causeway. The Chief could not see into the one closest to him, but the other was more than enough to draw his attention. Filling it was a creature that could only have been the Cerebrate. The being was huge, easily larger than an Ultralisk, and yet it barely even seemed to be alive. A folded, oblong mass of pulsating brown flesh affixed to a small expanse of the Zerg creep by a collection of thick, purple tentacles, the Cerebrate lacked any overt sensory organs or recognizable features of any sort. Like all components of the Swarm, it had been bred and grown to be just what it needed to be, with no unnecessary embellishments or vestigial limbs. It was a brain, utterly dependent upon the minions that were its eyes and ears, its hands and its protective shell.

As he turned his magnified viewer away from the thing, the Chief was grateful for his suit's dedicated air filters. Whatever waste the Cerebrate excreted, it must have done so directly into the surrounding creep.

A handful of large, crab-like creatures the Chief had never seen before clustered about the Cerebrate, grooming its perpetually-undulating creases with their proboscises or trimming the edges of the surrounding creep. Others scuttled around a pair of sagging, conical growths that flanked the Cerebrate. Eight Hydralisks also slithered back and forth before the immobile entity, watching the wall and the far platform with empty, hateful eyes. These creatures were half again as large as most of the same breed that the Chief had faced before, and their chitinous exoskeletons shown a dusky crimson in the light of the nearby energy pillar.

The Chief was about to take a closer look at the organic mounds adjacent to the Cerebrate when a shout from below drew him back to the other side of the wall. The Allied soldiers had drawn into a tight semicircle against the gated rampart, and their weapons were aimed purposefully back down the causeway. Jacen stood before them, the green of his lightsaber clear against the dull stone.

Zerglings and Hydralisks had begun to pour from the passageways at the other end of the huge chamber. A chorus of clacking-hisses reached the Chief's aural receptors, and he watched as the closest Hydralisks reared back and loosed volleys of lethal spines. A few found their way to the crest of the wall, but the Spartan was already sliding back down, unhooking his rifle as he went. The Chief hit the upper platform firing, adding his blaster's coughing report to the rising symphony of weapons fire reverberating from below. As he began to topple advanced warriors, the Spartan failed to notice that Tassadar was no longer sheltered amongst his squad's ranks.

* * *

Boil's massive bulk shuddered with relief as he sensed a throng of his warriors descend upon the human interlopers. The clutch of Hunter-Killers arrayed before him stiffened at the sound of weapons fire just beyond the barrier wall to their left, but they did not break away from their master to hunt the intruders. They were Hydralisks of the purest, most power breed, and for several long minutes, they had been the only beings between Boil and debilitating panic. His final line of defense, the eight warriors were all that Kerrigan allowed him to retain so close to her hive's heart. He had never questioned her insistence that lesser Zerg be kept from the core of the mountain complex, nor was he capable of doing so now, but he was nevertheless relieved that his master had temporarily lifted the restriction to stop the human's advance.

The Cerebrate did not fear death; as long as the Queen of Blades persisted, his consciousness would persist and be grown a new corporeal form. Rather, he had feared that he would fail in his mandate to protect her inner sanctum. This anxiety was not born of potential punishment or even the thought of not being created anew; loyalty to his mistress was part of what he was.

Boil had tracked the small group of humanoids since they arrived at one of the fortress's upper egress maws, near the mountain's summit. At first, he has thought little of them, suspecting that they were simply stragglers of the larger group that his forces had ambushed as they established a beachhead just meters from the hive's sealed entrance. These first attackers had displayed little of the cunning that had frustrated the Cerebrate during the human's initial incursion; by the time that they're metallic conveyances had offloaded the pitiful strike force, his perimeter broods had already burrowed themselves into the sand and soft rock below they're feet. The slaughter had been quite satisfying.

The latecomers, however, had posed an unexpected challenge. After killing a large number of his underlings, they had been able to slip into an excavation tunnel carved months earlier by the brood tasked by the Queen with establishing her seat on the human homeworld. Boil had believed that all such entrances had been collapsed, but somehow, the intruders had managed to use it to gain access to the mountain's interior. The Cerebrate had become nervous as soon as his perimeter forces lost the group; the preexisting, artificial complex that the Queen had adopted as her throne was left more or less intact at its lower levels, and thus lacked the sensory organs that would have allowed Boil to pinpoint the human's exact movements in a comparably-sized superorganism.

He had been forced to flood the portions of the facility that his Queen had not restricted with all the minions he could recall, weakening the fortress's defenses. Moreover, he had resorted to personally directing their search, an effort that distracted him from the other enemy forces scattered across the surrounding plain; the destruction of Boil's other brother had left him in sole command of the continent's broods. After a period of mounting agitation, a group of lesser minions had finally stumbled across the offending humans, who had evidently used the complex's conduit network to penetrate hundreds of meters down, to Boil's own level. One of them had touched his mind, and the Cerebrate had realized that, for the first time in his short life, he was in real danger. Desperately, he had called all the warriors within his reach to him, and attempted to track the alien mind as it approached. Even that effort had failed; another psionic power had repelled his mental tendrils, and mounted its own psychic assault.

The creature's dreadful, alien presence in his own thoughts still sickened him, even though it had been fleeting. Foreign as the hostile mind was, he could comprehend it fully, and he felt a portion of his being reach out in response. The momentary, uncontrollable reaction confounded and terrified him.

Through all of this, his Queen had left Boil almost entirely to his own devices. She seemed content to simply observe, and it did not even occur to him to question her passivity. He was tasked with defending her, and he threw himself upon the task with every measure of his will.

Nostrils of a dozen remote bodies captured the iron-heavy tang of human blood, and Boil began to calm down. Extraordinary nuisances they might have been, but no lesser organisms could withstand the fury of the Zerg for long. Confident that the threat had been dealt with, Boil extended his psionic presence outward once more, eager to oversee the extermination of the remnants of the force that had slain his brothers.

A wave of psionic energy washed over the Cerebrate, and his restored view of creep-covered vistas dissolved into blackness. Boil felt the solid metal and stone of the floor beneath him break asunder and give way, and he was falling, blind and alone, unable to even scream. Bursts of searing flare erupted across his pulpy hide, and with each one, a pulse of pain shot from end of his bloated body to the other. The tortuous void became solid again in an instant, and Boil felt the impact with every ounce of shivering biomass and every iota of sentience.

Reeling, the Cerebrate shot mental tendrils out in every direction, desperate to re-anchor himself in the corporeal realm. First, he felt the creep he was rooted in, then the floor, and the sheltering walls above, all still quite intact. The drones that had milled been milling about his body, grooming and sustaining it, lay dead, their tiny minds fried by his sudden outpouring of shock and disorientation. Beyond, his guardians coiled around one another, tense and confused, but still very much alive. Outwardly, the world seemed virtually unchanged.

Boil knew different. The Queen was gone.

She had not disappeared entirely, for as Boil concentrated, he could barely detect the familiar resonance of her thoughts, but it appeared as though perceived from a vast distance, like an eclipsed star a galaxy away. The gulf was crushing. From his first thought, she had been with him. The ebb and flow of her passions was his heartbeat. Her designs and machinations were his dearest dreams. It was as though his very ability to _feel_ had been torn from him, and only the crushing ache of its memory had been left to him.

He needed to reach his Queen again. He needed to lose his mind in hers. He would find the thing that had severed them. He would take her back.

Boil felt the unending fury and blind bloodlust of his minions, and took the fire as his own. As his intellect began to boil away, he lashed out with all his will, and all at once, the demon that had stolen his essence was before him.

Tassadar walked calmly from the far entryway in the barrier wall, his blazing eyes fixed firmly on the Cerebrate. The attendant Hydralisks spotted the Protoss, simultaneously loosed keening wails that drowned out the echoing sounds of battle, and charged. Their claws scythed the empty air in furious anticipation, and the scales of their armored carapaces gouged wakes of stone as they surged forward on tails of knotted muscle.

The templar's resolute, steady pace did not slow, and he spared the leading Hunter-Killer's only a momentary glance before turning his gaze back on the heaving mass of the Cerebrate. The fiends stopped short, almost collapsing backwards from their own inertia. The inky eyes within their serrated skulls went wild, and primal fury overcame the tenuous hold that genetic conditioning and psionic influence had on their basic instincts. Suddenly, everything that moved was enemy and prey, and each Hydralisk found an adversary within claw's reach.

Tassadar sidestepped the ball of gnashing jaws and shattering chitin, pushing the pair from his mind even as they smashed into the sealed gate, tearing at each other's arched throats. The six remaining beast fell upon the templar, unfazed by his effortless dismissal of their brethren. As the first blade plunged down upon his unprotected head, Tassadar flung back his dark cloak and thrust his arms out to both sides. The air before him cracked with blue and white, and lattice of pure energy burst into being from nothingness, mirroring the cool fire in the Protoss' eyes. Synapses of psionic force pulsed through open space and the bodies of the Hunter-Killers, unimpeded by their meticulously-evolved exoskeletons. Organs and soft tissue burned as bodily fluids boiled, and one by one, the Zerg warriors exploded.

When Tassadar looked again at Boil through a sinking red mist, the Cerebrate could finally see the isolating shroud that had severed him from his mistress. The obscuring, impenetrable fog poured from the Protoss' every orifice. In Boil's mind's eye, Tassadar became the miasma, a singularity anchored to the world only by conflagrations of cerulean and jet that erupted from where his skull should have been.

Terror lashed at Boil, and the rage he had manifested within his prone body burst forth. The pyramidal growths that flanked the Zerg coordinator came to life. Their sagging crests turned towards Tassadar, revealing circular maws dripping with nameless, toxic fluids that withered the creep where it fell. With great, wet inhalations of oxygen, the living towers vomited forth twin globes of writhing biomatter. Steeped in pustules of corrosive chemicals, each projectile swam with lethal bacterial spores.

Tassadar stiffened as the wave of filth hurtled at him, but he did not attempt to evade it. The projectiles washed over him, and his lanky form faded from being in a flash of blue light. Boil's bulk trembled with a silent roar of triumph, but it died as he watched three new dark-robed Protoss emerge from the empty space only a dozen meters before him, untroubled by the loss of their duplicate.

_Illusions!_

Boil's spore belchers lobbed another volley of corrosive missiles, obliterating a pair of the phantom templars, but the third leapt free of the withering impacts and broke into a run, thrusting his palms forward as he did. The firing mouths of constructs exploded in showers of blue sparks, and the organic towers collapsed in on themselves in eruptions of caustic fluid.

Tassadar leapt, clearing the creep entirely and burying his splay-toed boots in Boil's soft, livid flesh. The Cerebrate thrashed with all his might, almost tearing his barely-motile tentacles from the ground, but Tassadar held fast, climbing further up the bucking mass and clasping hold of its blistered surface.

When he felt the Protoss' long, delicate fingers on his body, Boil no longer could articulate the emotions that flooded his mind, kept so carefully in check for its entire existence. Fear, anger, and despair coalesced into madness, and the last thing that the Cerebrate perceived was an expanding point of darkness deep within its very skin, disrupting the last of the creature's cascading neural impulses as it reached out for Tassadar's careful grasp.

Then there was light.

* * *

The Master Chief knelt in the narrow archway. He held a Starfleet phaser in his right hand and his blaster pistol in his left. His favored rifle lay somewhere out on the open causeway, cleaved in half by a Hydralisk he let get too close. Methodically and with supernatural precision, he fired each weapon one after the other in short bursts. The right sent a Zergling skittering to the floor. The left punched a hole in the chest of an arachnidan horror that the Spartan could not name.

The right. The left. Two more monstrosities dead. The Chief ignored the flashing, red indicators on his HUD that tracked the ammunition and charge levels of both weapons. They still fired when he engaged their firing studs, and so he held his ground.

Behind him, Jacen Solo dragged a Starfleet officer deeper into the dark, confining passageway that ran through the barrier wall. Even through the spattering of blood and grime on her face, he recognized her as the officer who had cut them a passage into the mountain. As gently as he could, the Jedi leaned her up against one wall. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was shallow. Jacen's hands and tunic were covered with the woman's blood. Looking down, he saw that the jagged stump where her left arm had been was still bleeding furiously.

"I'm out!" the Chief shouted, and Jacen stood. Turning towards the archway, he palmed and ignited his lightsaber, illuminating the barren passage and the Spartan's worn battlesuit. Over its shoulder, the Jedi saw that the open chamber still writhed with fresh Zerg bodies, eager to pile after their wounded prey. Jacen stepped carefully over the unconscious woman and moved to join the Chief in the doorway. The Spartan had thrown aside both exhausted weapons, and now faced the ravening hoard with his gauntlets alone.

Another Zergling leapt at them, and all Jacen could hear was the rapid thud of his own heart. The others had all died so quickly after their makeshift line had been overrun. Somehow, it seemed quite natural that he would join them. He was mortal, just like the rest of them, and mortals died. They had fallen short of their goal and their deaths would bear little lasting meaning, but, didn't that seem like a very mortal end?

The Chief caught the air-borne Zergling with a sharp elbow just below the jaw. Robbed of its momentum, the beast tumbled to the blood-stained floor, but its spiked, dorsal limbs swung up and into the supersoldier's chest. His energy shields exploded into sparks and he was forced back a step, but the defensive field absorbed the brunt of the blow, and the Chief was able to grab both appendages before their owner could bring them back for another attack. His armored fingers locked on the bony shafts and he yanked up and back, twisting his wrists as he did. With a wet crack, the upper halves of the limbs broke away in the Chief's hands, and the Zergling loosed a pained shriek. A plated boot silenced the cry, and before the creature could bite down on it, the Chief slammed the foot to the floor with a sickening crunch.

Not bothering to shake away the gore, the Chief brace himself for the next attacker, but the only thing that greeted him through his spattered and scratched visor was a heap of broken and burned Zerg corpses. The rest were now halfway across the chamber, running or staggering for the hatches and openings from which they had come, wailing as they went. Several dashed against each other as they fled, hissing and clawing as they stumbled to the floor and then uneasily picked themselves up again. Within a few more seconds, the causeway was devoid of life.

Warily, the Chief stooped to recover his blaster and reloaded it from a compartment on his leg. No Zerg had shown itself by the time he had finished checking the weapon, so he withdrew deeper into the passage, where Jacen knelt again next to the Starfleet officer.

"Zerg aren't intimidated that easily," he said.

Jacen shook his head. "It wasn't that. I felt… something, very close by. It must have scared them off."

He looked up at the Chief. "Tassadar! He slipped away just before the attack!"

"He must have found the Cerebrate," the Chief agreed. "Lucky for us. We should find him before the effect on its minions wear off."

The Spartan paused. Jacen had torn a piece of his tunic and was tying it around the wounded officer's stump. She wasn't moving. The Chief had seen hundreds of battlefield injuries in the course of his service, and he was a reasonably good a gauging them.

"You can't save her. She's already lost too much blood."

Jacen ignored him. Tying off the tourniquet, he leaned closer to the woman and gently placed his hands on the wounded area. He closed his eyes, and concentrated. Almost immediately a measure of color returned to the officer's ashen features and chest swelled with a ragged breath. The Chief stepped back and fell quiet.

Jacen withdrew a hand. It came up caked with blood, but none of it was new. Satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, he moved his hands to the woman's face. In the dim light, in her Starfleet uniform, she reminded him of Laura. Taking a deep breath, he placed each palm on her cheeks and laid his forehead on hers. She took another drag of air, and then another. The Chief saw an eye flutter, but the third breath was weaker, and after the fourth, no others came.

After fifteen seconds of motionless silence, the Chief placed a heavy hand on Jacen's shoulder.

"You did all you could, Solo. We have to go. We have to find Tassadar."

Slowly, Jacen lifted his head from the cooling body. His hands fell away, but his eyes lingered on her bruised, pallid face for a few more moments.

The Chief was already at the other archway.

"Solo."

"Just a moment," he called back, and then took a long, deep breath. "I'm with you."

Jacen tried not to look back.

Cautiously avoiding the entwined bodies of a pair of Hunter-Killers, the two survivors found Tassadar standing in the midst of a massive mound of charred, oozing flesh, three times the Chief's height even in its ruined form.

"I guess he didn't need our help after all," the Spartan said, kicking a loose segment of shriveled tentacle.

The Protoss was kneeling waist-deep in the blasted remains, cradling a limp hunk of the dead Cerebrate in his arms. Wading closer, Jacen realized that the object was moving, if only slightly. Trying to shake away the disorientation of the last few minutes, the Jedi realized that there were two minds alive in the muck. Two very similar minds.

Carefully, almost tenderly, Tassadar swept a layer of purple ichor and white veins away from the top of the mass, and a face came into view. Its skin was rough and gray, and it seemed to lack any facial features save for a pair of clouded, half-open eyes. A faint glimmer of yellow light appear in them, and the being's neck twitched, shaking organic detritus from its pronounced, back-swept forehead.

"Another Protoss?" Jacen whispered.

"A friend."

For the first time since Jacen had met the templar, the psychic resonance that was his voice lacked its stern, commanding tone. The words were almost a whisper.

"Zeratul, I am here," he continued, pressing his head close to the other Protoss. "You are free."

The gore-covered alien twitched again, and his eyes opened a fraction wider.

"See with eyes unclouded, my friend. The Cerebrate will trouble you no longer."

"It was… a dream."

Zeratul's voice was even softer than Tassadar's, purely psychic, lacking the resonance that carried the templar's thoughts into the physical world.

"Trickery."

"I am no illusion, Zeratul," Tassadar said gently. "Although… I must appear so."

"You died. On Aiur. I saw it." Zeratul shivered, and his eyes began to inch closed. "More deception. But I will do no more. Your prize is spent, O Concubine of the Zerg."

Tassadar pulled him closer.

"You know me, Zeratul! You know the energy that flows through me. It is as much a part of you as it is of me! You felt it when you reached out to me, and you feel it now."

Zeratul said nothing for a long moment, and Tassadar's arms slackened.

"I feel one who has walked the path of shadow."

The glimmer beneath Zeratul's heavy eyelids brightened.

"Death suited you well, Tassadar. The stain of your association with me was washed away. They spoke of you as they did of Adun. En taro Tassadar, they would say. En taro Tassadar…"

Zeratul's eyes undulated flicking over Jacen where he stood nearby, but he did not appear to see him. Staring back, the Jedi remembered a conversation he had shared with Tassadar weeks previously, all but an eternity. He recalled mention of one of the templar's mentors, a teacher who had expanded his thinking and broadened his powers to combat the Zerg. A Dark Templar.

The emaciated Protoss soon settled on the high templar once more.

"How?"

"I do not know, my friend. When I plunged my flagship into the Overmind, I was ready to walk Khala's Path. Instead, when I awoke, I found a different road ahead of me."

Zeratul shivered again, but he did not speak.

"Though I Was far from home, an old enemy found me. The human… the terran Kerrigan."

Zeratul made a sound Jacen did not understand. "Ah. She found me, too."

Tassadar nodded slowly. "I must find her, Zeratul. I must discover how she brought me to this place, so far from home. And then she must be stopped, before she carries her curse to any other worlds."

"Tell me, my friend, if you are able, how did you come to this place? Why did she bring you here?"

Zeratul's eyes slid shut, and there was another long silence. Jacen heard footsteps behind them, and turned to see that the Chief had moved towards the huge, circular platform beyond, his opaque faceplate still turned warily towards the barrier wall.

"The creation exceeded its master. Queen… the corrupted terran rose with the Overmind's fall. Under her, the Swarm consumed the terran empires and pushed our people back to my world. We fought as one, like the Protoss of old, but even with the ancient artifacts of the Xel'Naga, we could not withstand forever."

"When Shakuras was finally overrun, I was taken. Some escaped… fled to the stars, but all the rest… consumed. She brought me to the apex of the Great Temple. She did something to the sacred machine, and then made me fight her. I attacked… summoned what energy I could…"

For a third time, Zeratul shivered, more violently than the last. Tassadar raised a hand to his the other's face, but he shook it off, opening his eyes once again.

"Something happened to the machine, and we left Shakuras. Far, far… She was too strong. I, too weak. She kept me locked away. Used new terrans, pitted them one against the other. She…" The Protoss cringed at some unseen stimulus. "She broke it. My mind. Took the secrets, like she had from the others. The dark… she used it to corrupt…"

"Deep Space Nine," Jacen whispered. "That's why the commander went mad!"

Zeratul seemed not to hear him.

"Then… here. She brought me here. Gave me to the Cerebrate. I tried to fight, but… I slept… everything. Everything stolen. Everything lost."

The final words seemed to have exhausted Zeratul, and he slumped again into Tassadar's arms.

The templar held him close. "Not all is lost, my friend. I will destroy her, and I will bring you home.

Zeratul's eyes had diminished to slivers of yellow again, and their light had faded noticeably.

"I am meant for shadow, Tassadar, and the light has already begun to fade. But not all of us are gone. Some still live, lost amongst the stars. They need guide."

Zeratul's right arm, virtually atrophied beyond recognition, shifted free of a mass of matted debris and inched up agonizingly until Tassadar clasped his friend's hand firmly in his own.

"Find them, Tassadar. Guide them home."

"By Aiur, Zeratul, I will."

The withered Protoss' eyes closed on distant embers.

"Shadows, at last. Adun toridas."

"Adun toridas," Tassadar said quietly, laying Zeratul's hand upon his sallow chest. It tightened, and then was still.

Neither Jacen nor Tassadar spoke until the Chief returned.

"We've got to move out," he said. "I don't know how badly losing this Cerebrate hurt the Zerg, but we can't count on them not coming back."

"The Queen is not far," Tassadar said, still facing the fallen Protoss. "We must go deeper."

"I found a control panel I recognize on that platform. It should take us down."

Jacen looked up. "A control panel you recognize?"

The Chief paused a moment before replying. "I've been in structures like this one before, in my galaxy." He shook his head before Jacen could ask the inevitable question. "I don't know how it's possible. It just is."

"There is one who can answer your riddle. Let us find her."

Tassadar clambered down off of the Cerebrate's corpse, Zeratul's body in his arms. The other alien was wrapped in Tassadar's cloak; the dark blue and gold of the templar's bare cuirass and raised pauldrons shown ethereally in the light of the looming energy beam.

The Chief stared pointedly at the wrapped remains as they moved towards the platform.

"Do not concern yourself with the body, Spartan. He will not burden us for long." After a few more strides, Tassadar laid Zeratul on the smooth stone of the causeway. "No sentient being deserves to rot in that foul heap, especially not him."

Kneeling at Zeratul's head, he closed his eyes, and Jacen felt the resonance of thoughts that only other Protoss could comprehend. Tassadar placed both hands on the covered skull, and with an exhalation, blue-white fire spread from his fingertips across the body until it was covered with roiling arcs of energy. There was a momentary flash of blinding light, and when it cleared, only a scattering of ash marked the spot where Zeratul had lain.

Tassadar stood and waved an arm across the spot, sending the remains scattering into the artificial wind.

"May these pieces find their master upon the Path," Tassadar said, straightening. "Let us hope that he receives them, for nothing can find a Dark Templar who wishes to remain hidden."


	53. Chapter Seventy One

**Chapter Seventy One**

The remnants of Tassadar's battle with the Cerebrate disappeared beyond the circular lip of an enormous shaft that slowly swallowed the platform and its luminous pylon. The metal beneath two pairs of human feet and Tassadar's heavy boots barely vibrated and the beam of energy that seemed to anchor it remained constant, but impenetrable walls of dark stone quickly rose up around them, consuming everything save the skyward dome. For a few moments, air currents from the chamber above echoed about the three, amplified by the enclosed space, but soon the sound faded, leaving only the faint reverberation of the surface beneath them and a gentle, magnetic hum to break the silence.

The Chief stepped back from the terminal he had located, his hands free to reclaim his blaster pistol. The control panel was made up of what appeared to be several thin, adjoining sheets of luminescent glass, dotted with geometric glyphs and blocky forms that crisscrossed its surface in regular, purposeful patterns. In actuality, the surfaces hovered at an angle to the plate below, holographic projections that had nonetheless given purchase to the Spartan's open palm and activated the lift at his touch.

The three stood in silence as the platform continued to descend. None had spoken since Tassadar's brief valediction, and the Protoss was once more drawn within himself, his bright eyes lowered and subdued.

Jacen was the first to break the restless silence.

"What is this place, Chief?" His voice echoed with more volume than he had intended and the Jedi tensed at the sound, but the reverberation faded harmlessly into the shaft's immovable walls.

"I'm not sure," the Spartan replied. "The only Forerunner structures I've seen have been Halos. Massive space stations with artificial atmospheres and landmasses. Their interiors were similar to this place, but I can't tell you what they built it to do."

Jacen frowned. "Forerunners?"

"That's what the AI Cortana and I found in one of the Halos called its creators. Apparently, they all died hundreds of thousands of years ago in a war with the Flood, a parasitic organism we found on the instillations." The Chief paused, glancing up the lengthening tube. "One that we woke up."

Jacen's own galaxy had its share of ancient, lost civilizations, evidenced only by enigmatic constructs they left adrift in the depths of space or scattered across remote worlds. In his experience, such wonders were rarely benign.

"And the Halos? What were they built to do?"

"They are weapons. I don't know how they work, but the Forerunners built them to combat the Flood. If activated, the Halos kill almost every living thing within a galaxy. They used them once, tried to stop the Flood and killed themselves in the process. I almost activated it again."

"Why?" Jacen asked, surprised.

The Chief stared at the younger man through his opaque visor, impassive.

"The first Halo's AI just told me it was a weapon, one I thought the UNSC could use against the Covenant. Cortana interfaced with the instillation's computer and stopped me in time, told me what it really did."

Jacen pondered this, but before he could ask another question, he sensed movement above and jerked his eyes up.

Descending from an unseen conduit or opening, a single, metallic entity sank into a relative stop a few meters above them, its repulsors emitting an audible hum. The dim light glinted dully off the polished, silver sheen of its casing, an elongated, torso-sized cube with a trio of angular appendages splayed at its front like a segmented shield. Behind these plates, a single, robotic eye gazed at Jacen and his companions, lit with the same ethereal light that guided their platform downward. A fourth appendage hung slightly below the machine's chassis, its small, forward aperture dark.

Jacen inhaled sharply and raised his lightsaber blade to guard against the new arrival, but it seemed to ignore the weapon, drifting side to side slightly, inspecting each of the figures below in turn.

"Wait!" the Chief cautioned. His blaster was clutched tightly in his right hand, but the Spartan had not aimed it at the machine. "It's a sentinel. The Forerunners built them to guard their facilities."

"Like the one we're wandering around in, unwelcome?" Jacen asked, not taking his eyes off the odd observer.

"Its weapon isn't charged," the Chief said, indicating to the ventral appendage. "And there'd be more of them if it was here to kill us."

Slowly, Jacen lowered his lightsaber. The sentinel turned its lambent eye on him again, pivoted slightly back and forth on its axis, turned, and then raced up wards on an ephemeral trail of light, vanishing quickly into the darkness of the shaft's walls.

Before any of them could ponder the machine's appearance and equally abrupt exit, the platform noticeably slowed its decent. A moment later, a full half of the continuous circle of stone and metal beyond the lift gave way to open space. There was a blast of air current and echoing noise, and a chamber far larger than the one they had just left rose into view.

The Chief felt his muscles tighten.

_This place, I_ do _remember…_

The space was circular, easily two hundred meters across and capped by a vaulted dome so far above that it was barely visible in the dim light. Evenly-spaced around its perimeter, three more dark shafts identical to their own sat empty, their central energy columns inactive. Leading from each, broad causeways that appeared to be composed mainly of frosted, semi-transparent glass converged on the center of the cavernous chamber. Near the center, they terminated into a single, continuous circle of walkway that left dozens of meters at the very middle of the chamber completely open, a gaping well that led down into nothingness. Beneath the walkways, themselves anchored only to the walls around the lift shafts, dark, solid walls tapered into a wide funnel and then plummeted down beyond sight.

Jacen and the Chief were still taking in the impressive, artificial vista when their lift eased to a stop, aligning perfectly with its causeway. The platform, like the rest of the massive space, seemed to be quite empty. And yet, as he took it all in, Jacen sensed a profound, vital presence that seemed to resonate from the artificial cavern itself, strange, familiar, and wholly alien all at once. The place positively _sang_ with ancient power, untouched by transient beings for countless millennia.

_And yet… _

Tassadar advanced between the two humans and stepped from platform to causeway, both as unyielding as solid granite. His eyes were veiled no longer, and his gazed was fixed straight ahead.

And then, at last, Jacen saw her. A single figure stood at the lip of the circular walkway with its back to him, its form obscured by the light of a long array of floating displays, similar to the one that had controlled the lift. At such a distance, the Jedi could barely make out the humanoid silhouette, but he knew in an instant to whom it belonged. He had never come face to face with the Queen of Blades, but he had sensed her from a distance, and seen her corrupt handiwork up close.

This was Kerrigan, heart of the Swarm.

The Chief and Jacen kept close behind Tassadar as he advanced towards her, unspeaking. The humans scanned the suspended causeways and empty air with cautious eyes, wary of more of Kerrigan's Zerg vanguard, but there was no sign of movement anywhere else in the chamber, and no sound saved the steady, slow clap of their boots on the smooth, unsettlingly transparent surface. Kerrigan was herself motionless, seemingly absorbed in the display before her and ignorant of the intruders. Steeling himself, Jacen reached out towards her, attempting to gauge something, anything about the being they had traveled so far and lost so much to face, but she was a hole in the Force, her malice and dark energy folded into an impenetrable psychic rampart. If Tassadar had more success he gave no sign of it, and walked onward unshaken.

Finally, when they were only a few dozen yards from Kerrigan and her green-gray skin and serrated, bony carapace were plainly visible, she turned to face them. Her muscular arms spread wide, clawed hands open in a show of welcome. The pair of barbed, wing-like appendages that spouted from beneath her shoulder blades mirrored the gesture, flaring like the grasping feet of a bird of prey. Pools of impenetrable black welled in her fine, yellow eyes.

Suddenly, the eyes filled Jacen's vision and obscured his other senses, searing through carefully-honed mental defenses as though they were wisps of idle fancy. He stumbled and started to reach for his head with his free hand, instinctively compelled to dash the foreign image from his mind, but he forced his arm to stop.

_No! Not this easily! Not so soon!_

He smothered the desperate, defensive urge and pushed back instead. He focused on the eyes, staring back with all his resolve. If Kerrigan thought she could break his will with the cursory assault and simple mental projection, she was sorely mistaken. He was a Solo, a Skywalker, and would not be bullied so. Another push, and the gilded voids evaporated.

Glancing to one side, Jacen could see that the Chief had faltered as well, but as the Jedi moved to lend him some of his own strength, the Spartan straightened up and squared his broad shoulders.

"Keep up with the Protoss," he growled, breathless, but in control.

Jacen looked at the man's opaque faceplate with fresh respect. Kerrigan's telepathic assault had been limited, only half serious, but it still should have been enough to send a human without the appropriate mental barriers to his knees. Fleetingly, the Spartan reminded him of his father; Han wouldn't have been easily cowed, either.

_He would have never allowed such an insult to his ego_, Jacen reflected before pushing the errant thoughts aside. _Dad would say that the Chief has a bit of Corellian blood in him._

Tassadar came to a stop less than ten meters from Kerrigan, completely unfazed by the unseen attack. Kerrigan moved a step from her controls, and a broad smile spread across her stained lips.

"Welcome, brave Templar, to my humble keep," she said, her voice saccharine. "I hope you and your companions found the stroll here pleasant." She made a show of glancing around Tassadar's armored frame. "I had expected more guests, but I suppose my guardians can be a little overzealous when it comes to my privacy. Nevertheless, I do usually demand a bit more… respect be paid to my servants. I was rather fond of the lump you gutted in my antechamber." Something dangerous flashed across Kerrigan's face, but in a moment it was gone, replaced once again by macabre good humor.

"But that is all behind us." She waved an arm extravagantly at the high walls and ceiling. "Extraordinary, wouldn't you agree? Feels a bit like home, doesn't it?"

The Chief and Jacen had moved alongside Tassadar by now, and Kerrigan turned her gaze on the former. "You feel it, don't you, Master Chief?"

The Spartan's only reply was to raise his blaster pistol and point it squarely at her chest.

"Oh come on, Master Chief Petty Officer John-117… or perhaps, just John. Yes, that will do nicely."

Jacen could sense anger rising in the Spartan, but he remained motionless, his armored finger just off the blaster's firing stud. He kept control.

Kerrigan cocked her head slightly to one side, and the spines above her head swayed in tune with the movement. "Not in a sociable mood, John? Perhaps some old friends, to lighten the mood."

"Eyes up!" the Chief barked.

Jacen saw a dozen sentinels rise from the empty space to either side of the causeway and form staggered lines in the air above them. They were identical to the one in the shaft, save that their lower appendages were noticeably extended. Apparently that, and the malevolent glee obvious in Kerrigan's face, was enough to mark them firmly as threats in the Chief's mind, and Jacen was not inclined to disagree.

As the humans turned their weapons towards the machines, Kerrigan spun around and reached out for something lying on a flattened area of the hard-light display. She returned with a large metal sphere gasped firmly in one hand. Its metal shell was similar to that of the sentinels, partially split to make room for a bulbous, eye-like lens, now dark and glassy.

"This little guy was quite upset when I found the facility. The place's caretaker and artificial intelligence, I think. It called itself Insoluble Vector, or something. It flitted here and there, whining about my broods upstairs or blathering about its mission and how I was disturbing the machinery. It put up a rather disappointing fight when I finally decided to be rid of it." She pondered the lifeless, artificial shell glumly, staring into its empty eye, cracked, Jacen could now see, and then tossed it carelessly to one side. The vacant machine bounced and rolled along the walkway until it came to its edge, teetered for a moment, and then tumbled soundlessly into the abyss.

Kerrigan turned her attention back to her audience, and smiled once more. "These sentinels proved far more useful, once I was able to bypass their old command protocols. For all they know, they're doing what they've always done, keeping watch on my sanctum and making sure that any unwelcome guests are kept properly contained. Far more subtle than any of my organic creations. No risk of damaging what's down here."

One of the sentinels drifted out of line, dipped low over the walkway, and then wound lazily up behind Kerrigan until it was just above her right shoulder. She raised a hand and ran a single, razor-tipped finger delicately along one of its forward plates.

Suddenly, the sentinel twitched violently, and Kerrigan's hand drew sharply back. Blue-white flame manifested itself on the sentinel's armored chassis, and the light behind its single eye flared. With a crackle of arcane energy and dying machinery, the robot was consumed by the fire and fell at Kerrigan's feet, a blackened mass of crumpled metal.

"Enough of your games, Dark One!" Tassadar boomed, his right hand raised. The space between them crackled palpably with charge.

The Queen's stare grew cold as it turned once more onto the Templar. Jacen and the Chief watched as the remaining sentinels drew back from the trio, their forward plates splaying further and their low-slung apertures coming to life with golden light. There was no cover available, should the machines open fire, and no place to run save the yawn darkness below. Kerrigan had them in the palm of her hand.

And yet, Tassadar seemed barely even aware of the threats above, or the men on either side, for that matter. He beheld Kerrigan alone.

"You have called me here, Empty Queen, and I have come of my own free will. Now, you shall lay your plans bear, and tell me why and how you have dragged me to this realm. Then, and only then, will we have our reckoning."

Kerrigan regarded him in silence, her lips pursed. The moment stretched, and Jacen felt the wash of a bubbling of power or raw emotion. As he tried to keep his guard on both the Queen and her stolen servants, the Jedi realized he could no longer be sure from which presence the feeling emanated. The life-force of Protoss and hybrid seemed to enmesh, immaterial tendrils clashing and knotting in an invisible duel.

"I suppose that would be only… fair." The words rolled from Kerrigan's slowly, cloyingly temperate. "You have answered my call, after all. Very well, I'll tell you a story. But don't think that you can fade away again if you don't like what you hear, my slippery friend. There is no way out of here, at least not…"

She trailed off, a self-assured smile forming again. Tassadar said nothing.

"My thanks, to start, Templar. Without your courageous sacrifice on Aiur, my ascension would have been impossible. As much as he was fond of his new toy, the Overmind would have never truly left me to my own devices, and his sniveling, sycophantic Cerebrates would have remained an insufferable impediment. As it was, they had to be dealt with, but with the Swarm's old master gone, it was a simple matter to subvert and eliminate the last hold-outs."

"The Terrans and your crumbling empire – and proud Aiur was quite lost even before I even had a chance to lay eyes on it, I'm afraid – put up a more satisfying fight, but in time, their flimsy alliances were easily rotted, their heroes corrupted, and their peoples consumed. A few stragglers here and there, but nothing left worthy of the notice of the Queen of Blades and her loyal hordes. I even followed the Terrans all the way back to their homeworld."

She looked upward dramatically. "I have to say, this version of Earth was much prettier when I found it. Heavy industry can take quite a toll on a biosphere. Well, I think my modest renovations improved on both worlds. A nice balance of efficiency and aesthetics, I think. You're welcome to disagree, but I wouldn't waste too much energy on it."

"Anyways, I found myself master of, well, everything. Any planet I saw, I could have. Any organism, new genetic material for my Swarm. It was all… so very easy. I tried to distract myself with little projects, tinkering with species I had harvested, adding augmentations and culling evolutionary dead-ends. But I wanted more, knew that there was something else out there that was mine to claim. A supreme challenge for the ultimate lifeform. Maybe that's why the Overmind created me."

She aped an introspective air. "Perhaps I should give the old flesh ball a bit more credit."

"My next conquest lay in the past. Relics. You know the ones, Tassadar. Xel'Naga monoliths and ruins, scattered from one side of the Galaxy to the other. The great progenitors, architects of entire sapient species, the creators of the Protoss and the Zerg. You know the legend, wise Templar, the ancient scripture of your race. How their creations grew too quickly, how they became too powerful, and turned on their masters, pushing them from known space."

She paused again, seemingly for dramatic effect. Kerrigan seemed excited and thoroughly engrossed in her own story, for once almost human, but Jacen still could not feel her. If there was any humanity left in the being it was purely superficial, left intact to disarm and distract.

"But how could this happen, Tassadar? How could a species so ancient and so powerful fall before the tantrums of a pair of children? Where was the might that had forged a boundless empire and the will that had bent the foundations of life to their purposes? Why had they fled so easily? Where was their _power_? The answer was there all along, in the carved, abandoned rocks that Protoss and Zerg alike revered for their ancient energies. And I found it."

"The key was on Shakuras, the great Xel'Naga temple that your Dark Templar claimed as their holiest ground. As soon as I set foot in its halls, I could feel the potential of the place, but the ancient's would not give up their secrets easily. I knew it was a weapon, one that its acolytes had used to slow my advance, but there was so much more there, just out of reach. Its true power and purpose was locked away, and even I could not seize it by my energies alone. So, I recruited another to supplement my own psionic talents."

Kerrigan tilted her chin down and frowned, plainly for Tassadar's benefit. "Poor Zeratul. The strain was too great for him, I guess. He never was the same when it was over."

Tassadar's eyes flashed with blue-white fire.

"I tire of this, Dark One. You may have lured other with your petty goading, but I will not be ensnared. Tell me what I must know, or I will tolerate your musings no longer! I have slipped through your grasp before, and I can do so again."

Kerrigan loosed a throaty chuckle. "Impatience, Tassadar? I expected a bit more from you. But you are right, of course. My thoughts do wander. No one's _perfect_, right?"

"When the Dark Templar's energies flared with my own, the temple at last opened to me, and I was swept up by a flood of insight. New, alien power poured into me, and I could see everything. I could understand it all! The true power of the Xel'Naga had not been lost. We had never really seen it at all! The empire that the Zerg and Protoss fought off was just a vestige of a far grander whole, cut off from its nexus, dying like a severed limb. The entity that our ancestors destroyed was already doomed!"

For once, Tassadar's iron focus seemed to slacken slightly. Jacen could not blame him; either by some psionic trick or the sheer force of her will, Kerrigan's tale was enthralling.

"The Xel'Naga's greatest achievement was not a weapon or a monument or some new pet! It was this!"

She threw her arms back and on cue, a beam of blinding light pierced the emptiness at the chamber's center, bisecting it from dome to bottomless deep. The column of energy and luminance was superficially similar to the lift's anchor, but it was far wider, and indescribably more powerful. The beam dimmed slightly and began to widen, pulsing with cascading hues that Jacen's conscious mind could barely comprehend.

A shockwave slammed into them, and both the Jedi and the Master Chief were forced to step back, bracing themselves. The sentinels above buffeted violently, some smacking into each other as their repulsors tried to compensate for the sudden turbulent. Only Tassadar and Kerrigan held their ground.

"A passageway, Tassadar! A gate to worlds that you and I cannot imagine! Galaxies unreachable by the most powerful starship! Even time is not beyond its reach! No dark age of the past or shrouded future horizon was barred to them! This is power! Resources, secrets, entire universes ripe for conquest! Unlimited power!"

Behind her, the column pulsed faster, and the empty air between it and the walkway seemed to solidify. From nothing, a cloud of distortion bent light and absorbed sound, swelling until it almost touched the thin surface on which they stood. The strange, ancient vitality Jacen had sensed before bloomed and roared in his mind, flooding him with psychic sensation.

"With devices like this one, the ancients spread well beyond the confines of their own reality, laying claim to galaxy after galaxy and bending them to their own will. Monuments like this were constructed in each, gateways that bound their mighty empire together. A trillion species felt their influence, and each of you have seen the undying remnants of their dominion. The Xel'Naga. The Forerunners of your world, soldier. The forgotten builders of your realm, Jedi, and this one as well. All of them, the same great architects. The greatest conquerors of this or any reality has ever known! And all because of these gates!"

The massive distortion, still fed by the towering beam of light, had stabilized into a great sphere of constant movement and spiraling charge. As Jacen followed wave after overlapping wave of warping space, he realized all in an instant that this was a rift. The mysterious phenomenon that had spat the _Enterprise_ ravaged into Imperial space and propelled the _Republica_ from peril to peril sat before them, a tear in the fundamental structure of reality. Even the Force seemed to change in its presence, its barely-perceptible veins made erratic and its very aura impregnated with the awesome presence.

Air current whipped about Kerrigan, but she did not turn to face the storm of essence and energy. Face broad with exhilaration, her gaze had locked firmly with Tassadar's.

"But even these great creators were not invincible. An unstoppable foe encroached on their home realm, and the war that followed pushed the ancients to the brink of defeat. Their only chance to stop the invaders from finding these gates and spreading to every corner of their empire was to annihilate all life in their own homeland, nexus of the network. When their ultimate weapon was unleashed, the gates fell silent, their heart damaged by the blast and the final release of so many of its masters. The survivors were isolated, their lifelines cut, left to fend for themselves alone in galaxies they had only begun to tame."

"In the end, they were not as magnificent as their constructs. One by one, the scattered remnants vanished, destroyed by rebellious natives and each other. Others simply wander off into the endless cosmos or went to ground on forgotten backwaters, letting all that they once were slip away. Now, all of them are gone, and only these gates remain. My gates."

Kerrigan took one step towards Tassadar, paused, and then took another. He was utterly motionless, his eyes bound to hers.

"And now we come to your role in this little tale, dear Templar. You see, I was too greedy. When knowledge of the gates flowed into me, I bent all my power into awakening them from their dormancy. It worked, but the effort was draining, and I could not resist the portal when it opened over the temple."

"When I awoke, I was weary and beaten, cast on the surface of a world I had never seen or heard of. My Swarm was gone; only the lone Protoss and a handful of my attendants had been pulled through the gate with me. I was angry at first, perhaps even… afraid, but soon I could sense another gate out amongst the stars, flush with new life and waiting for its new master to claim it. All I had to do was wait, bide my time until I could claim the artifact and probe its power more carefully. It did not take long for a Starfleet vessel to happen upon me, and it was a simple matter to corrupt its captain and crew. My influence spread quickly throughout the Federation, and all the while I bred fresh Zerg strains from those few that had accompanied me and the DNA pumping through my veins."

"At last my strength returned and I maneuvered myself secretly to Earth. Finding this instillation was not difficult. This place called to me. I am the one who reignited it, its long-awaited master."

"The true capabilities of this gate are incredible. After using Federation scientists and its own caretaker to discover its secrets, I realized that it was not limited to projecting rifts here, in this chamber. It could generate passageways anywhere in this realm, connected to any other dimension, and any other time, that the ancients had anchored with another gate. Causeways for war fleets between galaxies, as large and as permanent as I desire. Fleeting rifts capable of plucking individual starships or settlements and casting them into the farthest reaches of time and space. Tiny portals that grab sleepers from their beds or whisk them from transporter beams. Nothing is beyond its power!"

"Unfortunately, the amount of psychic energy required to accurately direct the device is considerable. It can work without such guidance, but it is greatly limited. Projected rifts appear erratically, both in time and place, varying unpredictably in size and duration. Often, they only manifest on areas of high energy. Even this rift's end-point is variable. I needed more energy to bend it to my will, and your Zeratul was spent. Only Protoss, of all the species I had encountered and could obtain, had the necessary degree of power."

Kerrigan was now only a few paces away from Tassadar. Jacen and the Chief had drawn back, weapons at the ready, but Tassadar seemed to be frozen in place.

"I don't know how many rifts and portals I scattered across reality, using my Federation agents to follow up each subspace distortion and secure every being I managed to pull into this reality. So many dead ends and useless weaklings. And then, one of my pet admirals received word of a strange 'transporter accident' from Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the _USS Enterprise-D_. Among the roster of unusual, displaced sapients, there was a Protoss face. Your face, Tassadar."

"Of course the rifts would have found you eventually. Your battle with the Overmind must have been simply magnetic for the wandering portals. You can imagine my joy when I dispatched a ship to retrieve you… and my rage when Picard used one of my own rifts to escape."

"I searched for years, but still you eluded me. Each new portal brought more disappointment, and eventually I resigned myself to this limited, weak realm. When my broods were ready, I swept aside the rotted Federation and its allies with contemptible ease. More frustration."

"And then, you returned. What was more, you presented me with your ship, a tool I could use to crush the last, annoying remnants of this pitiful galaxy, and, of course, your own psionic power. I knew I had to be careful, draw you in slowly to ensure that you did not flee again. But you have come, in the end, and with a gift to replace the one your companions stole from me. I thank you, Tassadar, sincerely. It would have taken years to hunt down the defiant fools who are dying overhead right now in your name. But most importantly, I thank you for delivering yourself to me. With your power, I can make this gate complete."

Kerrigan's void-like pupils had widened until now her eyes were both impenetrably, irresistibly black.

"With your help, Tassadar, every being on every world in every universe will know my name. By your hand, the Queen of Blades will stand alone."

Jacen expected a gout of the familiar white-blue flame to burst from the Templar, to sweep over the Zerg Queen at point-blank range. For all his Jedi training, for all his old masters' admonitions about the necessity of restraint and their warnings about preemptive action, he would have attacked Kerrigan now were he in Tassadar's place. Wearily hefting his lightsaber in her direction, he silently admitted to himself that he wouldn't have let her get within five meters.

And yet, Tassadar was still. The Jedi could feel nothing from him. Surely, he should be able to feel _something_ piercing the invisible pall cast by Kerrigan's presence.

"Templar," the Chief warned.

Kerrigan's right arm extended towards the Protoss' unarmored face.

"Tassadar!" Jacen shouted, fear suddenly stabbing at him. He had waited at the Templar's side, certain that Tassadar was biding his time, waiting to strike when Kerrigan had divulged what he had so desperately wanted to know.

But Tassadar did not move, did not speak, did not even brush the edge of Jacen's mind with his own. He was paralyzed, trapped in Kerrigan's gaze.

Jacen and the Chief shot a quick glance at one another, thinking the same thing. Surrounded as they were, something had to be done. Kerrigan had to be stopped before she could claim her prize.

The Spartan's trigger finger tensed. Jacen tried to clear his mind, focusing on the pommel in his hand and Kerrigan's outstretched arm.

Neither man saw Kerrigan move. One moment, she was still beyond Tassadar, the next, she stood between them, the huge, bony spike on her back sweeping outward, low to the ground. The thick, hard tines caught Jacen in chest and legs with tremendous force. In a terrible, agonizing instant, he felt the bones in his legs creak and his knees buckle almost to breaking.

The world before his eyes reeled up and back. His lightsaber slipped from his grasp. He felt himself falling.

Instinctively, he pushed back to soften his impact on the ground, but he immediately realized that there _was _no ground. Kerrigan had knocked him clear of the causeway, and he was falling into the abyss. He felt his body tense and the swirling world around him seemed to slow. Numb with pain and shock, he reached out and did the only thing he could think of doing.

Miraculously, both his hands grasped the smooth, slightly raised edge of the causeway. The jolt of his own weight against his arms knocked his head from side to side, but his grip held fast.

There was a crack of lashing claws from above, and a mass of dull green rolled off the other edge of the suspended platform.

_The Chief! _

Jacen knew that he could not halt the armored man's fall, especially not as he hung on for his own life, but…

With artificial rigidity and supernatural speed, even for a Spartan, the Chief's left arm shot straight up and his fingers closed on the walkway's narrow lip. An impulse flashed through his impact-clouded mind, and the fingers clamped onto the metal, vice-like. The joints of his gauntlet scrapped thin lines on the surface as his immense weight pulled him downward, but the right hand joined the left, and he found purchase again.

All this happened in a matter of seconds, but before either could take stock of their precarious new situation, a low chorus of hums heralded the approach of Kerrigan's vanguard. Eleven silver-plated machines swung into view from either side of the walkway, dipping slightly below their targets and orienting their angular bodies in the humans' direction. Jacen saw the golden glow, and knew at once he had to move or be skewered by whatever the sentinels could spit forth.

Swiftly checking his physical and mental reserves, the Jedi knew he could shoot himself straight upwards, back over the lip.

_But the Chief… _

Looking across the underside of the causeway, Jacen caught the other man's gaze through his faceplate. The Spartan jerked his up.

_Go!_

Not pausing to think, Jacen summoned all the energy he could to him and pushed up. The Force felt strange, colder than it normally did when he manifested it, but it complied nonetheless. Bouncing off of his palms, Jacen shoot up three meters, landed back on the causeway in a roll, and then shoved himself up onto his haunches. Casting about for his lightsaber, he saw it just out of arm's reach, less than half a meter from a very long drop.

As the sentinels rose back up over the lip, resolutely tracking their assigned target, the pommel was in Jacen's hand and lit. A swift slash caught a machine that had risen too close. A spherical energy barrier appeared around the sentinel to deflect the blow, but Jacen pushed through it, shattering the shield and cutting the device cleanly in half. Before the sparking fragments had the chance to fall more than a meter, four lances of golden light erupted from the firing apertures of the other sentinels.

Jacen felt the heat of the beams, saw them carve through the clear air, each aimed precisely, just above his breastbone. The Jedi ducked and thrust his lightsaber lengthwise in front of him. The beams intersected with the glowing blade almost at the same point, continuous bursts of energy that sent a wave of heat like lava over Jacen's hands. He grunted as the skin of his knuckles blistered, but he pushed back, angling his blade forward and up. Like the refracted rays of sunlight on a mirror, the energy beams angled off wildly. Two grazed an unfortunate sentinel, overwhelming its shield and sending it spinning beyond sight, its rear chassis smoking. The others scattered to avoid the ricochet.

Taking advantage of their momentary withdrawal, Jacen looked down to the other side of the causeway. The lip was smooth and straight, without any sign of armored fingers.

Jacen inhaled sharply and rushed across the walkway, looking down and expecting to see nothing but sentinels circling down out of sight. Instead, one of the machines shot upward, just centimeters from Jacen's face. Its movements were erratic and jerky, and it took the Jedi only an instant to realize why.

Clinging to the sentinel's upper pair of forward plates, the Master Chief swung precariously back and forth, his stomach as flat as he could manage on the thing's stubby drive section. It dipped back and forth and up and down like an insect with a broken wing, trying to shake the unwelcome passenger free and unburden its straining repulsors. Around it, the other sentinels watched the bizarre display at a distance, momentarily unsure of their targeting protocols.

Jacen knew that their hesitation would not last long, but before he could try to assist the soldier, a trio of energy beams slashed across the causeway in front of him and he was forced to jump back, lightsaber on guard.

Jacen spotted two of the machines floating close together overhead, and jabbed at them with an open palm. The two suddenly found their directional fins non-functional and smashed into each other at speed, triggering both of their defensive screens. They tried to move apart and reorient themselves, only to be flung into the shield of the third device. The last had been firing its weapon at that moment, and the shot went wild, catching both of the units that had impacted it. Their spherical screens absorbed the raking blow, but the confused fray distracted them for precious seconds, just as Jacen had intended.

One of the sentinels observing the Chief finally resolved to override its friendly-fire subroutines and angled a beam intended to clear the offending human off of its fellow machine's back. The Spartan saw the blast coming and hauled back on his makeshift handholds, sending his sentinel into a reluctant backwards spin. The beam cut into the unprotected underside of the machine, and the hum of its repulsors revved and sputtered loudly.

Fortunately for its passenger, the sentinel bucked wildly before its drives gave way, sending the human sprawling through mid-air and onto the causeway a few meters from Jacen. Even more fortunately, the energy beams that followed him were all wide. One managed to sweep across his left shin, but his own energy shield saved the leg, and the Chief tugged the limb away from the searing lance.

Jacen ran in the prone soldier's direction, and as he did, something bumped against one boot. Glancing down, he saw it was the Chief's blaster, lost after Kerrigan's assault. Still running, he swept his arm towards the Spartan, and the weapon turned and tumbled along in its wake.

"Chief!"

The Spartan's head turned in his direction. He took in the motile blaster in a glimpse, reached out, caught it, and then rolled sharply right to avoid more lances of lethal energy. Jacen sent another wave of Force pressure at the sentinels, sending them spinning away even as the others recovered from their disorientation and shot back towards the causeway.

As the Jedi turned to deflect the next volley of brilliant lances, the Chief picked himself up and searched the platform for their immediate priority. Kerrigan had moved to the very edge of the huge sphere of distortion that still hung at the center of the chamber. Tassadar was slouched against one of her legs, pinned there by the Zerg Queen's flexible spines. Kerrigan's back was turned on the humans, and she seemed to be entering something into the large holo-display at the walkway's edge. The Protoss was still motionless.

The Chief raised his blaster, sighted along his arm, and fired. The burst of crimson hit Kerrigan full in the back, and she slumped against the controls. The Spartan pulled the firing stud again, but this time Kerrigan seemed to swipe the bolt from the air with her dorsal appendages, absorbing the burning plasma with reinforced chitin.

Her movement left Tassadar free to slump onto the causeway. His head hit the smooth surface, and his clouded eyes burst back to life. He felt sluggish and inordinately weak. At first, he couldn't remember anything, not even his own name, but as his eyes filled with the swirling, cascading surface of the gateway's rift, everything flooded back. His mission, Zeratul, what Kerrigan had told him, confident that the psionic trap she was laying while she spoke would bind him utterly to her will. Wisps of the spell still hung behind his eyes, dark threads that receded from the fire of his thoughts.

Dark Templar psionic technique, no doubt stolen from the mind of Zeratul or one of his comrades. Tassadar cursed himself for not detecting the familiar tendrils of coercion and paralysis-inducing apathy. He had been too desperate to learn some reason, some rationale behind the madness of the last weeks and months. Kerrigan had given that, at least, and now he felt his mind clear, his purpose crystallize.

His right hand shot out and grasped hold of Kerrigan's spurred ankle. He pumped psionic energies through the limb, and heard the abomination scream. Good, he thought, she can still feel. Trillions demanded justice, and he vowed silently that each would exact its own painful vengeance.

Enormous claws slashed down his face and his body, each of them spitting its own searing psionic charge. He felt the armor at his waist melt away, and an enormous barb plunged deep into his side. Tassadar roared, and felt a foot plant itself on his side.

"Willingly or not, Protoss," Kerrigan sneered down at him. "You are mine."

Jacen had just sent another sentinel tumbling away into the blackness, scorched by its own weapon, when he felt Tassadar reach out to him. Whirling about, he saw the Templar lying on his side. Kerrigan stood above him, her back spines withdrawing from wounds on the Protoss' vulnerable form. In that instant, Tassadar was looking past her, directly at the Jacen.

_My people, Jedi. _

With that, he was gone. Kerrigan had rolled him off the platform with his foot, straight into the throbbing surface of the rift. Jacen didn't even see him hit it. The Zerg Queen arched her back, splayed her spines wide above her head, and barked a laugh of triumph. In an instant, she had vanished, too.

The sentinels did not cease their attack, but the departure of their master seemed to make the machines sluggish, and Jacen and the Chief made short work of them. Only when the last had fallen out of sight could either fully appreciate what had happened.

Jacen deactivated his lightsaber and let his arms fall to his sides. He stared at the massive bubble of distorted space. The rift was unaffected by the passage of the pair, its surface an uninterrupted tide of folding, barely-perceptible waves and burst of indescribable color. Only now, the Jedi noticed that the anomaly was utterly silent. Indeed, with the elimination of the sentinels, the chamber felt as soundless as deep space. The raw, living power of the rift still roared at him in within his skull, tugging his perception of the Force this way and that, but even that waterfall of sensation had dulled, as if it had started to pour its energy inwards.

_My people, Jedi._

Jacen knew that Tassadar had intended it as a farewell, a last, desperate request. It left the Jedi feeling utterly helpless. The unspoken words hung on him like bricks of durasteel, crushing him to the floor. It was a request he did not know how to satisfy, the plea of a being that knew its time was near an end. He was certain that Tassadar still intended to destroy Kerrigan, but…

He remembered the huge gash in the Templar's chest, and the Dark Queen's feral joy.

"No more contacts on my sensors. We're clear, for the moment." The Master Chief stopped alongside Jacen, holstering his blaster. "The interference is gone and I've got comms. We're pretty deep, though. I might not be able to reach anyone through the rock."

"Truul's team?" Jacen said numbly.

"Already searching," the Chief replied, tapping the side of his helmet with two fingers.

They were silent for a moment, simply staring at the rift.

"We've failed," Jacen said at last. "Kerrigan's escaped."

"She's gone," the Chief acknowledged. "And if our Intel was right, the Zerg fleet is falling apart right now."

"So we saved them, what's left of them, for what, a day?" Jacen shook his head. "You heard Kerrigan. If she manages to control one of these gateways, she'll be all but unstoppable. All we've done is deliver Tassadar to her."

The Chief stared at the younger man, and he suddenly felt his tinge with red.

"This was Tassadar's plan. No one pushed him here. Not you. Not me. He's in that thing with her right now, and I wouldn't count him out of the fight yet."

Jacen's eyes fell. The Chief was right, of course. Tassadar had risked everyone, himself included, for the chance to get within striking range of Kerrigan – Jacen remembered his own anger at the prospect - and he had managed to do precisely that. Tassadar was one of the most powerful beings he had ever encountered, and the Protoss had saved all of their lives more times than he could remember. If anyone could destroy Kerrigan, he could.

And yet, there was the wound.

The Chief's helmet crackled with static.

"Sierra, do you copy?"

"I copy, Beta. What is your status?"

The sound of weapons fire echoed from the transmitter, followed by a gruff, booming voice.

"Watch that door, Galmak! Catch them as they enter! Show these creatures what it means to match blade and claw with Klingons!"

There was a burst of static, and then Truul's voice returned. "Don't encourage 'em, Commader! It's bad enough that they had to bring so many damn knives and swords with 'em. We've got these things beat, and I don't want to have to drag along another fool who got his arm gnawed off because he didn't think his disruptor was good enough for the job!"

"Sierra, we found your tunnel, and were making our way down into the mountain. We got to these damn huge tunnels before the Zerg found us. Hard going since, and I've got casualties. The pressure's just cut, though. Fewer of the blasted things, and they're not as coordinated. Did you upend a Cerebrate or something?"

"Affirmative, Beta. My unit has advanced what appears to be the command center of the facility. Alpha has engaged the Primary."

There was a pause. "Please repeat, Sierra. Is Kerrigan dead?"

Jacen looked up. They wouldn't ever know if Tassadar succeeded or failed, at least not until Kerrigan emerged again with the rifts and a new army bent to her will. And then, it would be too late.

"Negative, Beta," the Chief replied. "Alpha and the Primary…" he trailed off, apparently unwilling to explain over the comm. "We've lost contact with both. I'll fill you in when your unit gets here. Follow this signal until you reach a shaft. I'll send the lift up for you when you signal."

"Got ya, Sierra. I'll shout if there are any more problems."

The Chief muted the line and turned back towards Jacen. The Jedi was still staring at the rift, silent. Slowly, the Chief looked away and started back down the causeway towards the waiting lift.

"I'll stay with the lift until the Major arrives. If you notice any new contacts, let me know."

"I'm going in."

The Chief stopped mid-stride.

"What?"

The two turned to face one another again, and the Chief saw that younger man's face was hardened with resolve.

"We have to be sure that Tassadar has destroyed Kerrigan. I'm going to follow him, and help him if I can."

"You're not stupid, Jedi," the Chief said briskly. "We have no idea how that thing works, or where it leads. Even if you were to survive the transit, there'd be no way of contacting you or getting you back. This is in the Templar's hands now. We still have our duty here."

"We failed in our duty when she stepped into the rift, Chief! Tassadar's alone with her, who knows where, and she's on the verge of accessing a power we can barely comprehend, much less stop. If she survives, all we've fought for is for nothing! We're dead, and so is everyone in this galaxy. Eventually, my home will fall, too, and so will yours."

He shook his head. "I'm not a soldier, but I take my duty just as seriously as you do. On this world or any other, I am a Jedi, and it is my responsibility to preserve peace and defend life, no matter the personal cost. Kerrigan threatens that and everything else I care about. I must follow her and make sure that she cannot spread her ruin anymore, even if I have to become one with the Force to do so. That is my duty, Chief, and I will fulfill it, just as you must fulfill yours."

With that, Jacen turned his back on the Spartan, clipped his lightsaber to his side, and stalked towards the ethereal vortex. The Chief watched his back for a while, and then glanced down at his hands.

Worn armor. Veteran of too many firefights and daring escapes. The paint was thin and chipped, burned off in places, and number of dings and minute fractures in the metal probably would have made its designers recoil.

The blank-faced helmet shook back and forth slowly. Who was he to tell anyone else not to take stupid risks for what they believed in?

"Wait."

Jacen had stopped near the edge of the circular walkway already, and he glanced back, his face still set.

"Even bad ideas should have contingency plans. If you go in there, find Kerrigan and eliminate her, do you want to be stuck alone on the other side of that without a way to get back?"

Jacen shoulder's drooped slightly. "I don't see how I have many options."

"Wait a moment," the Chief said, and reactivated his comm link.

"Beta, are you in contact with the Fleet?"

"Haven't tried for a while, Sierra, but I can give it a shot."

"Patch me to Flagship Vulcan, if you can."

"All right, give me a bit."

Jacen was giving him a quizzical look, but there was still a good chance the Chief sudden inspiration would fall flat, and he avoided the gaze.

After a tense half-minute, there was a hiss and burst of static so loud that it echoed up to the chamber's high dome, and then a voice, scratchy and distant, but entirely recognizable.

"Strike Force Earth? Major Truul, is that you? What is your status?"

Jean-Luc Picard's faint voice sounded nearly as excited as it did weary.

"Captain, this is Sierra. The Master Chief, sir. We've breached Kerrigan's fortress and secured her control room."

"Acknowledged, Master Chief. The Zerg armada is collapsing. We had thought we'd just hit another Cerebrate, but I suppose you and your men deserve the credit. Is Kerrigan dead?"

"No, sir. She entered some kind of device at the base of the facility with Tassadar when we attempted to engage. The device is secured and we're prepared to pursue, but I want someone down her who can control the machine and pull us back when the mission's been accomplished."

There was a long pause, and the voice that finally replied was not Picard's.

"What have you found us this time, Chief?"

The Spartan smiled for the first time in what felt like years. It had been far too long since he had heard Cortana's smooth, confident voice.

"Forerunner. An entire facility, buried under Mount Kilimanjaro."

"Forerunner?" Cortana was understandably bewildered, but none of the apprehension in her voice was doubt. "How is that possible?"

"I'm still not entirely sure, but we've found out what brought us all here and what's been making the anomalies. Kerrigan found some sort of projection device, and she's been using to try and lure Templar Tassadar here. They've disappeared into a rift, and Jacen Solo and I are going to follow them, but I need you to get down here and figure out exactly what this thing is and how to use it. We'll need a way back when the job's done."

"Wait, Chief. You're going into it _before_ I figure out how it works?"

"It can't wait. Tassadar and Kerrigan have already been gone too long. We can't even be sure it will stay open much longer."

"All the more reason to be careful about this." Cortana's agitation was painfully clear. "The battle up here is over. Without Kerrigan, the Zerg ships are all but dead in space. Can't we wait and follow her later, when we have more data?"

The Chief paused.

"No."

"Are you sure about this, Chief?"

He grinned. "Do I ever jump into anything if I'm not sure I'll come out of it?"

"No jokes! Just… tell me."

"I'll come back, Cortana. I promise."

The AI was silent for a moment, an eternity for the artificial mind.

"How long do you need?"

The Chief considered for a moment. "Three hours. If you can figure out how to get us back at all."

"If that thing's Forerunner, Chief, you'll have your evac. Three hours, no longer."

"Acknowledged. Give my regards to the Captain. Sierra out."

Immediately upon ending the transmission, the Spartan activated his mission clock, a tiny numeral that wound slowly up on the corner of his vision.

"We?" Jacen asked when he had finished.

"As you said, Jedi, duty."

Jacen smiled slightly.

_Everyone has someone to protect. _

"What about Major Truul?"

With speed and efficiency that still impressed the Jedi, the Chief traversed the long causeway, activated the lift and loped back off of it before it could rise more than half a meter, and informed Truul of the change of plans, ordering him to secure the chamber in their absence and wait for Cortana. In less than a minute, they were standing side by side at the edge of the walkway, the distortion rippling silently before them.

"Take my hand," Jacen said, offering it to the Spartan. "We can't be separated. You won't know where you're going in there."

"And you will?"

Jacen sighed, glanced at the anomaly once more, and raised his hand higher. The Spartan took it, careful not to clasp it too hard.

"On count of five," the younger man said, squaring himself before the rift and taking in a deep breath.

"It's better if you just jump."

Before Jacen could protest, he felt the pull of the Chief's weight on his arm, and both were gone.

* * *

When the _Republica_ had first traveled through one of the holes in reality, Jacen had been at a viewport to watch the galaxy slip away. The distant starfield had faded into bland nothingness, and then, for a few unforgettable moments, the space beyond him had blossomed with impossible vibrancy. Undulating bands of primal energy had danced and intertwined as he sat back, safe within the warship's hull as glorious and unknown sensation washed over him. They had been guided by Cortana then, and the AI had only just barely been able to deliver them to their desired destination, an effort that had succeeded through sheer guile and intuition, and not without misadventure.

Jacen had hoped that the experience this time would be similar, and that he would be able to latch onto whatever cosmic current Cortana had located.

He had been wrong.

At first, the Jedi had thought that they had simply fallen through the portal, victims of yet another trap. When he had looked down, however, there was no yawning pit to swallow him up. No wind lashing at his face.

There was nothing at all. No sight. No sound. No feeling. The only thing that proved that he existed at all was the pressure of the Master Chief's gauntlet on his hand. He tried to squeeze back, and dimly, he could feel fingers that must have been his pressing against cool metal.

The sensation, remote as it was, anchored him, and he began to calm, his mind focusing. It no longer felt as though they were falling, but when Jacen tried to move his arms and legs, he found no purchase. Indeed, it didn't feel like he had a body at all. Trying to look around, the Jedi realized why it was so impenetrably dark. It wasn't for lack of light; his eyes, and the head around them, weren't there at all. The only part of him that seemed to exist was his enveloped hand, and as he focused on it again, even that faded away, leaving only a subtle, disembodied pressure, and the inkling of another mind nearby.

Jacen could sense agitation from the Chief, the sensation far sharper in the absence of physical distractions. He tried to think of some way of reaching the other man, to calm him, but the agitation had already begun to subside, replaced by ordered, basic thoughts. Vaguely, could discern memories, a name, ranks, a long series of numbers… the Chief was falling back on training, centering himself.

_Just as I should be doing._

Jacen thought back to his youth, the earliest years of his guidance in the ways of the Force and the tenants of the Jedi Order. He was a child again, no older than four or five, sitting cross-legged in a sun-lit room within the Jedi Praxeum on Yavin 4, his eyes squeezed shut. There was a voice, warm, calm, and familiar. Uncle Luke.

_Don't think about me, or the room, or the sun. Do even think about your own body. Let it all go, and look inward. Let your mind drift. Don't try. Just… let it come to you. You'll see a new light deep down, eventually. Just wait for it to come._

Jacen felt it now, the little spark that had always seemed like it was hiding in his chest. Gradually, at an almost imperceptible rate – time seemed to mean little in this place – the spark grew, flared, and he felt warmth flow from it. The gentle heat expanded outwards, and Jacen could sense a bit of his body again with its growth, as though it was thawing after a bitter winter.

And then Jacen could see them. Four stars hung before him, impossibly distant and just within reach, if only he had the arms and hands to take them. Each burned with a slightly different radiance, and as he focused on one, it seemed to have its own texture or smell or taste or tone, a distinct note that combined with the others to form the same irresistible, living roar that he had sensed in Kerrigan's chamber.

He could have sunk into the feeling, let the raw power and primal beauty of it permeate his being, become part of the chorus forever…

"Don't leave me waiting."

Jacen remembered the transporter room and Laura's final words to him before they had parted for the attack on Earth. The gaze that didn't break his even it was swept away by a glinting veil of blue.

_Enough! Focus! _

Jacen tried to push through the sensation, and to his surprise, it faded obediently into the back of his mind. The four stars were before him again, and he bent his will towards one, selecting it at random.

_Tassadar! _

He felt minds. An endless sea of being, and with them, fleeting images of cities, planets, stars, galaxies. The sudden torrent almost overwhelmed him again, but he pulled away, back to the quartet of lights. None of the feelings within the stream had been familiar.

Jacen tried another, and again almost fell into a river of alien thoughts and foreign places. He pulled back, and felt panic and desperation returning.

_They had waited too long. He should have followed sooner…_

The third star hit Jacen like a tidal wave as soon as he touched it, and this time the Jedi truly felt as though he was drowning in the surge. A trillion horizons blended with uncounted minds and Jacen felt everything else begin to wash away under the onslaught. Tassadar. Laura. Even the steadfast pressure on his hand began to slip away.

And then he felt it, rushing past with all the rest. Familiarity.

Jacen lunged for the minute jewel like a lifeline, not caring who held it or where it led. The fragment burned bright, and the flow cringed at its light, wrenching and twisting to avoid the point. Incomprehensible eternities drained away, and the spot became Jacen's world.

* * *

"Jedi? Can you hear me, Solo?"

Two heavy hands were closed on Jacen's shoulders.

Shoulders? He had had one of them at some point, he thought. Two, in fact. Their precise purpose eluded him for the moment, but they had apparently come back.

"Solo!"

"I always liked them," Jacen mumbled blearily. "Now, what were the other bits?"

His reply came in the form of a firm shake that rattled his bones and roused nerves all the way down his body.

One at a time, his eyelids rolled back, revealing a muddy, distorted image of his own face.

"Chief," Jacen said groggily, proceeding to arch his legs in an attempt to drive off a lurking cramp.

"On your feet, Jedi."

The Spartan drew back, his helmet shifting out and back into focus, and Jacen craned his neck to see an offered hand. He took it, and immediately regretted the choice.

"I suppose I had this coming." Jacen had steady himself, and was staring at his left hand. Its edges were tinged with crimson, and several fingers had begun to swell.

"You were slipping," the Chief replied. Memories of their transit still jostled and swirled about inside Jacen's head, but he did distinctly recall the pressure, and how it had given him focus. "Next time I'll try to be gentler."

Jacen gave the hand a shake and let it fall to his side. The pain would pass, and it was far better than the alternative.

"Next time, you're taking those things off before we go."

The Jedi looked up into the Spartan's faceplate, and wished he could see the man's face.

_What did you see in there?_

The Chief held his head in place for a moment, and then turned away, and Jacen nodded slightly.

_Another time, perhaps._

They were at the end of a long, sun-lit hallway. Rather than the ancient, geometrically-carved stone of the Kilimanjaro instillation, the floor was layered with wide, polished tiles of lustrous jet, and the walls were a soft gray. One side of the hall was dotted periodically with sealed, vertical-seam doors, and the other was adorned with large windows, one of which was only a few meters away. Except for him and the Chief, it was quite empty.

"Did you see any sign of Tassadar or Kerrigan?" Jacen asked quickly, his chest tight.

The Chief shook his head, and looked towards the wall to his left, where the hallway ended. Jacen followed his gaze, and could see that the flat, featureless surface was rippling like a pond on a windy day. Without thinking, he reached for it, but the Chief grabbed his arm. Centimeters from the Jedi's outstretched fingers, the entire wall gave a shudder, bowed inward, and then rapidly stilled. Waves of distorted space and matter converged to a point the size of a coin, gave a last bubble, and then vanished.

Jacen stared dumbly at the blank wall.

"If felt him…" Even as the words rolled of his tongue, though, he began to doubt them. What had he felt, really, in that final instant? He had been thrashing about for the familiar aura of the Protoss, touched something that he knew…

Eyes squeezed shut, Jacen focused on the Templar's essence. The alien manifested clearly in his mind, his power, his dignity, the strange concurrence of his foreign energies with the Force. He reached out to the dimmest edges of his perception, ignoring all else for the smallest inkling of the Protoss' wake.

Nothing.

Jacen's head dropped and he felt a palm slapped against the wall. It did not yield.

"What now?" the Chief asked.

Jacen's breath was coming in gasps now. He felt helpless. Useless. Unbelievably, unforgivably stupid. He had failed again, and now not only was Tassadar beyond all assistance, he and the Chief were lost as well. If Cortana couldn't figure out the gateway device, both of them were wholly cut off from the rest, probably forever.

"I don't know."

Jacen pushed away from the wall and stalked past the Chief, purposefully avoiding the other's gaze. As he paced down the hallway, he made a halfhearted attempt to collect his thoughts again, but mounting contempt with himself made the attempt fall flat. The lack of control served only to inspire further self-loathing.

He would have likely stormed down the length of the corridor if two sensations hadn't simultaneous stopped him in his tracks. The first was a hazy glint from the window he had been passing, and he glanced out the wide, translucent portal. In the distance, a sun was setting behind an uneven horizon, partially hidden by a multitude of massive shapes. Jacen squinted through the glare, and his heart skipped a beat. The shapes were artificial, tiered skyscrapers and glassy spires.

Then, before he could fully process the scene, Jacen realized that he could still sense the familiar presence he had felt in the surging depths of the rift. It was faint and almost unrecognizable. It was no wonder why he had not appreciated it until now, but his mind had been jarred by the sight of the skyline, and now it was working furiously. He slumped back against the window, bringing a hand to his forehead.

_It's not possible… _

"You'd better take a look at this, Jedi."

The Chief was staring at a plaque mounted next to one of the sealed doorways, just above a simple control panel. He couldn't read the script engraved into the metal, but the twin symbols that anchored the beginning and end of the line of text needed no translation. A circle enclosing a wheel with six spokes.

It was the standard of an empire.


	54. Chapter Seventy Two

**Chapter Seventy Two**

The Master Chief padded quickly along behind Jacen, careful to keep a few strides behind the Jedi. The younger man had been moving at almost a run since they had left the site of the rift opening, loping around corners and plowing past open doorways, apparently without a second thought to who or what they might run into. Decades of experience behind enemy lines precluded the Chief from any such luxury, and the Spartan was finding it increasingly difficult to keep pace with Jacen while still scanning the neat, austere walls for disguised security devices and dampening the impact of his boots against the polished floor. He might have abandoned the pretense, but the Jedi's earnest demeanor and the pommel gripped firmly in his right hand kept the Chief on edge.

So far, they had encountered very little in the way of life. The Chief had spotted a stiff, metallic figure stepping through a far doorway, but it had seemed not to notice them, and Jacen had briskly assured him it was just a service droid. Beyond that, the Jedi had spoken little, and only given the vaguest idea of why they had suddenly departed the row of windows and the remarkable view beyond. The Spartan had learned to trust the supernatural intuition of his companion and followed without complaint. Nevertheless, the Chief took careful stock of their surroundings as they past, trying to form a mental map that could lead them back to the dead-end corridor, the best – and only – bet the Chief could think of for extraction.

The mission clock at the edge of his vision was ticking steadily upwards. 01:39:40. They had spent more time in Kerrigan's portal than he had thought.

_I hope you have a better hold on things than I do right now, Cortana. _

He dismissed the idle thought. Of course Cortana had the situation under control. She was a systems hacker by design, and better at her given profession than any Spartan was at his or hers.

The environs that rushed by gave the Chief few clues as to their tactical situation, but he had cobbled together a working theory. The symbol he had spotted on the plaque had been that of the Galactic Empire, so they could only be in Jacen's home galaxy. The Jedi had fleetingly confirmed the supposition and mentioned the word 'Coruscant', another artifact from his brief time in the realm that the Chief could recognize. Coruscant was the capitol of the Empire, and the skyline they had left behind seemed sufficiently grand; it had been quite unlike any human city he had ever seen, and the Chief doubted that even the Covenant had anything that could compare to the glimpse he had seen, hundreds of multi-kilometer skyscrapers stretching out into in the dusky horizon.

The Chief had to assume that they had landed somewhere significant, but Jacen reckless advance didn't seem to have triggered any alarms, and no familiar white suits of armor or trim, dark uniforms had presented themselves. Each successive corridor was vacant save for the occasional raised terminal or piece of statuary that embellished square sitting areas or communications hubs connecting the hallways at even intervals. The level seemed to be abandoned, a suspicion reinforced by the doorways that would occasionally slide open as they moved past. Each revealed a small living suite or office area, and many of them seemed to have been stripped and vacated in a hurry.

Passing through what appeared to be a security checkpoint, the Chief was relieved that the guards had packed up as well. If his luck held, whoever might have been watching the pair of intruders were also absent.

Finally, Jacen stopped at a bank of turbolifts. He looked them over quickly and then made for the farthest, but the Chief laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Before we get in that thing, I want to know what we might be dealing with on the other side," he said. "Where are we?"

Jacen glanced at him a moment before looking back at the lift. He was plainly anxious to keep on moving, but the Chief didn't ease his grip. Blaster bolts and ravenous alien killing machines were one thing, but he knew that lack of information was one of the surest ways to end up a post-op statistic.

"Coruscant, like I said," the Jedi replied. "Beyond that, I'm not sure."

The Chief stared at him calmly. "If you're not sure, then why are we running deeper into this place?"

A pain expression crossed Jacen's face, and he looked earnestly at the turbolifts again. "We're running out of time, Chief. Let me go."

"Only when you tell me what's going on."

Jacen's free hand balled into a fist, but the Spartan could tell from his face that it wasn't in anger.

_He's afraid. _

The Jedi fixed the Chief in a stare and he held it, confident that the other could tell even with the curved sheet of composite between them. After a moment, Jacen inhaled deeply and his fist loosened, but it did not fall away entirely.

"I'm not really sure myself, Chief. It's a feeling, just a feeling, but I've got to follow it. When we were in that rift, I saw something…" He trailed off for a few breaths. "I have to be sure. You don't have to follow me. In fact, you shouldn't. Get back to the corridor. If the rift comes back, it'll be there. I'll be all right by myself."

The Chief considered the Jedi. It was clear that nothing short of violence was going to sway him, and if it came down to a fight, he honestly wasn't sure if he'd be able to stand in the man's way. Besides, he had to admit, the prospect of doing something, even if it meant barging into unknown, potentially hostile territory beat an hour of idle sight-seeing.

"I don't think so. I've had enough of solo ops. Now, which lift?"

Once they entered the small cubicle and the doors closed behind them, Jacen entered a trance-like state, his eyes unfocused as a hand hovered over the control panel. The Chief used the time to scan the chamber for obvious signs of observational equipment. No security features were apparent, but the Spartan had led enough infiltration missions to know that it didn't take that much work to make cameras and sensory triggers all but invisible. Nevertheless, when Jacen finally settled on a destination, no alert sirens sounded above their heads and the lift slid compliantly into motion.

The Chief could sense the speed of the conveyance in spite of its dampening systems as it shot upward, and was impressed by how long the trip took. By the time the time the lift slowed to a stop, he was quite sure that the structure they'd stumbled into was at least as large as the skyscrapers he had seen looming outside.

Soundlessly, the doors slid open, revealing a niche of other turbolifts. The space opened onto a far larger room, nearly as long as the hallways they had left and tree times their width and height. Life-size marble figures on pedestals posed grandly along its middle, with turbolift niches and the open mouths of corridors dotting each long wall. As the Chief eased out of the lift, his blaster drawn, he noted the Imperial seals mounted prominently at either end of the room, huge disks of black against pristine, white walls.

"Clear," he whispered.

Jacen was already striding into the long chamber. He stopped by the statue of an older human male with a disdainful expression on his stone lips, ignoring it in favor of the half-dozen hallways that converged around them.

"Which way?" he muttered to himself, turning from one to the next, his probing eyes obviously seeing well beyond the confines of the room.

The Chief was about to ask just what _exactly_ the Jedi was looking for again when a faint hum from ten meters down the chamber pushed the question from his mind. By the time the sound gave way to the soft hiss of gliding metal, he was pressed against the wall of the niche, weapon arm raised at his side. Jacen had ducked into a corridor across the way, and the Chief could just see him, flush against the wall as he was. They exchanged a furtive look, and the sound of multiple pairs of feet filled the chamber.

* * *

Reginald Barclay was not in high spirits. His brief stay in the brig of Darth Vader's star destroyer had been positively agreeable compared to his time in Covenant hands – he had been cleaned up and eaten his first adequate meal in weeks – but the gray tunic that had replaced his tattered uniform and the heavy binders on his wrists were grim reminders that he was still a prisoner. He tried to twist his wrists inside of their metal restraints, but they wouldn't budge. Barclay blew out a noiseless sigh.

_You're still alive, Reg. That's all that matters. _

But his resolve was slowly eroding under the weight of hopeless captivity and exhaustion. Barclay had only been allowed what felt like a few short hours of sleep in his lonely detainment cell before being roughly awakened and escorted to a large hangar bay. There, he had been thrust face to face with the towering Dark Lord again. This time, however, there had been no questioning and no painful mental incursions. Barclay had simply been shepherded into a waiting shuttle in Vader's wake and crowded with a complement of stormtroopers and a small, dome-headed astromech droid into a rear compartment.

The windowless passage had deposited him on a small landing platform, blustered by the first real wind he had felt for months. Before Barclay had had a chance to enjoy the fresh air or fully appreciate the scale of the building before him, soldiers had hurried him inside. The interior was grand even to Barclay's tired eyes, high-ceilinged promenades lined with towering, intricate mosaics and antechambers dominated by courtly statuary, all of it cast in stark black, white, and gray.

And yet, the place had seemed eerily vacant. Stormtroopers, some of the bearing distinctive blue decals on their crisp, white armor, seemed to flank every entryway and patrol every corridor, but even they were strangely small against the grandeur of their surroundings. Barclay only saw a few others; army officers busy with datapads stopping to salute their lord, harried-looking staff pausing to stare at the procession, a scattering of droids. They even passed one man, a pale, slightly overweight dignitary in a flowing robe who watched them in bald-faced terror. If the Dark Lord noticed any of the attention, he didn't allow it to break his fast, purposeful gait.

At length, Vader had dispensed a few curt, unintelligible orders to a black-uniformed officer attached to the group and disappeared. The Dark Lord's words had been gibberish to Barclay, deprived at last of the precious universal translator, but the look of consternation and confusion on the officer's face had required no translation. The engineer had tried to derive a measure of comfort from that; at least he wasn't the only one at the whim of forces beyond his control and comprehension.

Barclay felt a firm shove in the small of his back, and he stepped forward. The lift had come to a stop while he had been lost in thought, fighting through weariness to contemplate the ultimate destination of the inexorable parade. Any illusion of escape from whatever fate awaited him had long since been dismissed by the Imperial might arrayed about him, but the unheralded resolve that had pulled him through the trial with Flitch kept his mind working, staving off the despair that had all too often claimed the engineer in the past.

Something rubbed against Barclay's leg and he looked down. An optical nozzle on the little astromech droid's squat head swiveled up to meet his gaze, and the droid loosed a brief series of chirps and whistles. The man understood the machine's language as well as the words of his captors, but he thought he caught an air of apology in the sequence of intonations.

Weakly, Barclay smiled at the droid, and it chirped twice more before rolling away on its squat trio of legs. The stormtroopers escorting him gave the machine a respectful berth, allowing the astromech to weave as it liked through their ranks. Another attempt to keep his mind focused, Barclay had tried to puzzle out why the thing had accompanied them. Surely, it wasn't a security measure; the half-dozen armored soldiers were more than enough.

_Perhaps it's a prisoner, too. My new cellmate. _

As the formation emerged from the turbolift bank and advanced down another quiet hall, Barclay watched the droid clip the Imperial officer a dozen paces in front of him. The man grunted in surprise and the little machine responded with a loud razzing noise before veering away, back towards the human captive. The officer followed it with a glower, but turned away without another word.

Barclay watched the astromech with mounting curiosity.

_Looks like someone put in a special word for you, little guy. I hope you _are_ my cellmate. Just as long as you don't have the temper of the last one. _

* * *

Six stormtroopers, each armed with a standard E-11 rifle. One officer, pistol holstered at his hip. Another human, unarmed, with hands restrained. A tech droid.

The Master Chief watched the complement move past, taking in every detail with quick precision. He was only meters from the Imperial soldiers, and he knew that there was nothing between him and half a dozen blaster bolts save the insulated walls of the stormtrooper's helmets. The Spartan's motion tracker displayed the contacts as a blob of red, barely separate from the tiny vector that was his suit. Just one casual, sideways glance…

The Chief's heartbeat quickened slightly, but he kept his breathing steady and even. He felt the internal contours of the gauntlet wrapped around his sidearm, could feel its weight. The regimented click-clack of the stormtrooper's boots filled his ears, but the poised trigger finger did not twitch, and his body was still. The officer passed from view, then the first pair of soldiers, then the second…

As the Chief watched the other unarmored human slip beyond the far wall of the turbolift niche, directly between the latter pairs of Imperial troopers, the man tilted his head in his direction, following an irregular movement of the group's astromech droid. The Chief was certain that the man didn't see him, and he only caught a momentary profile himself, but it was enough.

Reginald Barclay.

The Chief managed to suppress any physical manifestation of surprise, but his mind immediately began to work furiously. The Starfleet officer had been lost during the _Republica_'s transit through the Reach system, and the Chief had watched Captain Picard give a few parting words for the engineer, yet another blow to the _Enterprise_'s dwindling crew. The Chief had always suspected that the Arbiter was more than a match for the traitor Flitch, but he had never maintained any illusions of ever seeing the Sangheili warrior again, much less the hapless hostage he had vanished attempting to save.

And yet, here the awkward, introverted engineer was, escorted, alive and apparently intact, by a guard of soldiers worthy of a high-ranking dignitary.

With the last stormtroopers passing from view, the Chief shot a questioning glance at Jacen, hoping that the Jedi might be able to shed some light on Barclay's bewildering appearance, but the opening across the way was empty.

The Chief found himself unsurprised by Jacen's sudden absence. The unexplained determination had never left the younger man's face even after the Chief had refused to leave him, and he knew that kind of focus would not permit any delay. Obviously, Barclay's presence was not what drove the Jedi, and consciously or not, he had taken advantage of the distraction to shake off his last restraint.

_Good luck, Jedi_, he thought, checking the mission clock at the fringe of his vision. _Just don't be late. _

The volume of footsteps on tile had begun to decrease, and the Chief knew that Barclay had his escort were approaching the end of the long chamber. If they left the space, he could easily lose them in the unfamiliar complex, or run into additional guards in the attempt. It was already seven on one.

The unfavorable odds, particularly considering his load-out – a single blaster pistol and one extra clip – gave the Spartan pause, but the doubts over his next move never entered into the mental calculus. He had been isolated from his other companions and objectives, and an ally - clumsy and awkward but an ally nonetheless - lay in hostile hands. There was no other alternative.

Soundlessly, the Chief stepped from the shelter of his alcove, bringing the backs of the Imperial complement into full view. The rear soldiers were ten meters away, with their officer another three ahead. Barclay walked at the center of the group, the astromech trailing just behind him. In a moment, the Spartan had sized up the situation, fixed the rear stormtroopers positions in his mind, and leveled his blaster at the back of the engineer's head.

His breathing was steady. His mind was clear.

"Barclay!" he bellowed.

The prisoner's slow gait faltered and he dipped to the left, in the process of looking back. The soldiers surrounding him responded similarly, whirling about with their rifles at their hips. For the moment, the Chief ignored them; his focus was on the trim, capped head of the officer Barclay's sudden move had revealed.

This was the Chief's element. A narrow shot, hostile contacts close at hand, a life riding on his aim. Training took over. He pulled the trigger.

* * *

Tassadar's world was pain.

The wound to his stomach he had been able to bear. It was agony of the flesh, easily washed away in the reserves of power that he had summoned to purge Kerrigan's corruption from his mind. But when she had kicked him into the rift and his mortal coil had seemed to fall away, the pain returned and grew like a fire across oil. Before he could even comprehend the sensation, it had nearly consumed his mind, robbed of its fleshy shell and laid bare to anguish that swiftly transcended its corporeal nature.

He roared in pain and frustration, but now sound emerged. He felt the flames washing over him, but he could see nothing. The space beyond his eyes, and his eyes themselves, were voids. Nothing but torture existed for him now, pure, overwhelming sensation.

_Another disappointment, Tassadar? I'm hurt. I thought you, of all of them, would put in a bit more effort. _

There was another mind with him now, barely perceptible beyond the blistering sheath. Tassadar felt it and his psionic eye, the only extremity left to him in the empty place, sharpened and probed outward. The inferno intensified, almost withering the psychic tendril, but he endured. Another desperate push and it was through, and the Protoss could perceive his foe clearly for the first time.

Kerrigan was unmasked, her cloying sheath and cruel illusions cast aside. She was a thing of energy and emotion, as raw and elemental as any being he had ever imagined. Beneath roiling tongues of dark psionic power, perpetually consuming and tearing free from one another, knots of malevolence squirmed like bloated worms. Tassadar had touched a mind like this once before, in the instant between his final assault on the Zerg Overmind and the treacherous salvation of the rift, and he could see the same foul contours now, the same primeval wretchedness.

The Overmind had not simply been evil. It was not insane or covetous. Hatred, anger, bloodlust; nothing so petty and insignificant. It _was_ consumption. The Overmind existed to grow and devour, to claim lives, species, planets, galaxies, everything for itself, until nothing else was left. It was this elemental force that Tassadar perceived in the Queen of Blades.

But she was not quintessence. As Tassadar looked upon her through the fire and the void, he could see breaches in the raging sea of her being. There were holes that the self-consuming shards of intent could not fill, and in them there was conflict. The Overmind has failed; his creation was not unitary, not perfect. Deep beneath the lashing waves, a human mind was still trapped, stripped of everything but its fear and the will to be. The discord infected every part of Kerrigan, and emotions that the Overmind would have disdained bled from her. Greed, rage, and even… doubt.

She drew deeply from wells of power to contain the discordant impulses, sources that did not originate from within her. Rather, she sucked what she required from the emptiness, like the parasite that refused to die within her. The void engulfing them, Tassadar realized, was just another trick.

_It will be your last. _

Tassadar willed the fires of pain to cool. The act exhausted his last internal reserve, but the agonizing sheets turned to ice and shattered, and with them, Kerrigan's obscuring façade fell. Suddenly, he was drifting in a sea of energy, not light, not dark, but simply _there_.

He drank deeply.

_That's more like it! _Kerrigan's thoughts overlaid onto his, snide and self-assured. _Zeratul could not touch the power that is dormant here. You will make a far superior conduit._

_Claim me then, my Queen! I will not await your pleasure!_

Still siphoning all he could from boundless streams of energy that seemed to pour from the black, Tassadar's very essence flared and he burst forth. The two shapeless, ageless manifestations of thought collided, and the space around them transformed once more. The great sea of power morphed into raging river, and Tassadar felt himself tumbling trough it, entwined with Kerrigan's toxic being. Four nexuses of energy loomed around them, springs from which the primal torrent surged. On the edge of his conscious mind, the Protoss perceived more, uncounted wells that fed the churning ocean, but one of the nearer sources swelled swiftly, and he felt the current no more.

* * *

Barclay stared at the barrel of the blaster. The weapon was meters away, but to him it loomed just before his eyes, dark muzzle and circular bore identical to the dozens that had menaced him over the last weeks. The sharp report still echoed in his ears, and the skin on one side of his neck chaffed with heat. There were no other sounds, and nothing moved.

_This is it? _

He hadn't expected his journey to end so suddenly. In quiet moments, Barclay's mind had dipped into a variety of half-baked, grim fantasies that involved exotic tortures or fiery crashes. In more sensible moments, he had pondered the prospect of simply sitting alone in a holding cell for the rest of his days. Compared to that, an unannounced blaster bolt to the neck wasn't so unwelcome. Besides, it didn't hurt as much as he had expected. In a slow stupor, he raised a hand toward his throat, anticipating the muddiness of blood and charred flesh.

Behind him, a loud thump echoed in the silence. In the same daze, Barclay turned away from the blaster until he caught sight of a smoking mound of black cloth on the floor several meters ahead of him. Bemused, he peered at the odd shape more closely, until his eyes fell on a limp white hand emerging from the gangly lump. It was the commanding officer of his escort. The man's head, above which the thin smoke hung, was mercifully hidden by the contortion of his back.

The stormtroopers around Barclay were moving now, scattering with long, glacial strides and sedately raising their blaster rifles to chest height.

Barclay continued to peer at the Imperial officer. The heat on his exposed neck had begun to dissipate.

_All right, Reg. A near miss. Now, don't be an idiot and stand there until someone gets another shot off._

The world around him suddenly accelerated back into life, and the sounds of battle assailed his ears. Stormtroopers shouted unintelligibly to one another, and several fired off shots barely more than an arm's length from him. The familiar smell of ozone filled his nostrils.

To his left, there was a gust of heat and a strangled cry. Barclay looked down into the blank, black eyes of a stormtrooper's helmet. The chest of the man's polished, white suit was marred by a carbon-rimmed, coin-sized hole.

_Run!_

Beyond the fallen soldier, an open doorway split the far wall. Without a second thought, Barclay leapt over the man and ran for it, wincing each time a chunk of the floor or an elegant fixture exploded into shrapnel.

A hand grabbed his left arm, and Barclay skidded to a halt just meters from his escape route. Blindly, he turned on the hand's owner, raising the only weapon at his disposal. Another white-armored head filled his vision, and he swung both arms at it. The heavy binders connecting them slammed into the side of the soldier's helmet and sent him to one knee, releasing Barclay's arm in the process. Freed, the captive started to make for the safety of the doorway again, but stopped again after a few steps.

The remaining four stormtroopers had taken up positions straddling the width of the chamber, their backs turned towards Barclay and their fallen comrades. From positions behind corners and cracked stone benches, the quartet were zeroing in on a large statue at the center of the long aisle. The brief firefight had already cratered it beyond recognition, and the combined blasterfire of the group was swiftly reducing the humanoid form into a charred column of rock.

As Barclay watched, a figure behind the statue popped into view, squeezed off a pair of shots at the nearest trooper and retreated back into cover. The bolts rocked the wall next to the stormtrooper, but his armored protected him from the burning shrapnel, and he returned a withering barrage that sent sparks flying across the withdrawing combatant's green armor.

Barclay held the fleeting image of the worn battlesuit in his mind, suddenly oblivious to the danger he was in. He had not fully appreciated who had fired the shot that had felled the escort commander until now.

_The Master Chief!_

A flurry of questions and doubts assaulted the engineer, but they were dispelled when a large chunk of the Chief's cover broke off and clattered to the floor. A couple of the stormtroopers had shifted their E-11s into auto-fire mode and were spraying the makeshift redoubt with a devastating volume of fire. Barclay knew that the statue wouldn't hold much longer, and even the Spartan could take on that kind of directed firepower at close range.

He could still run. The stormtroopers were thoroughly distracted, and the open doorway still beckoned to him, tantalizingly within reach. Running had saved him before; he wouldn't have survived the furor in the Covenant Council Chamber if he hadn't been able to find cover.

And while he had watched from relative safety, the Arbiter had nearly died at the hands of the hulking Tartarus. For all he knew, the valiant Sangheili had succumbed to his wounds on the Chamber floor. And what had the evasion bought Barclay? Another brush with death at the hands of Flitch, and fresh imprisonment.

_Not again. No more running._

The stormtrooper Barclay had knocked to the ground had regained his balance, and he saw the man raise his rifle in the prisoner's direction. Barclay's eyes locked on the blaster, and he leapt straight at the man, his bound arms outstretched. The two collapsed to the floor on top of one another, and the engineer managed to grab hold of the rifle's grip. The stormtrooper still held his weapon fast, and Barclay knew that he wouldn't be able to out-muscle the man, but he didn't have to; the blaster lay in front of them, aimed at the backs of the soldier's comrades. Barclay fumbled desperately for the trigger, found it, and squeezed as hard as he could.

The spray of crimson bolts carved a wide swath of blackened craters across the ceiling, cleanly missing all of the Imperial troopers, but contact from their rear and the shower for debris from above was enough to draw their attention. Fire on the Chief's position lessened momentarily, and that was all he needed.

Barclay watched the Spartan tear out from under cover, his pistol blazing with precise fire. One stormtrooper was hit before he could respond, and the Chief had closed on the next before he shot off another bolt, advancing with blinding speed. There was a crack of metal on reinforced ceramic, and the white-armored soldiers spun into a wall. The Chief was drawing a bead on the third trooper when Barclay's vision exploded with stars.

The soldier he was tangled with had delivered a sharp knee into his stomach, and Barclay found himself unable to breathe. His grip on the rifle weakened and it was torn easily from his hands. Another kick turned the engineer onto his back, and it took all of his will to keep from blacking out.

He heard the click of a firing mechanism, and peered up through bleary eyes. The stormtrooper was kneeling above him, and the muzzle of his blaster was bare centimeters from his heaving chest. The soldier barked something, but Barclay could do nothing but wheeze. He saw the trooper's finger tense on the trigger of the E-11.

Suddenly, the stormtrooper shouted out in pain. Arcs of electricity sparked up the back of his armor and wreathed his neck, and he began to convulse. The electric pulse intensified, and the soldier fell sideways to the floor, his hand frozen uselessly on the weapon.

Confused and still breathless, Barclay pulled himself onto one elbow and cast about for the source of the paralyzing blast. At his feet, the squat form of the astromech droid sat on its trio of rectangular feet, the receptors on its blue-paneled head aimed at the unconscious stormtrooper. A long, pronged instrument protruding from its side retreated back into its vertical panel with a whir of gears, and the droid turned its domed head on Barclay.

"Thanks," he said uncertainly. "Thank you."

The astromech whistled happily, and then turned its glassy receptor back down the corridor.

Barclay glanced at the motionless stormtrooper, breathed deeply to slow his pounding heart, and began to rise. As he did, a shadow fell on him and the engineer looked up so quickly that he almost tumbled back to the floor.

The Master Chief stood over him, a new E-11 propped against his shoulder. The Spartan's armor bore a few fresh, blackened score-marks, and a thin, transient line of sparks rippled from his back down the side of his breastplate, but he appeared to be uninjured. The same could not be said of the other stormtroopers; four white-clad bodies lay motionless in the hall behind the Chief, neatly dispatched by blaster bolts or physical trauma their suits had failed to mitigate.

"Thanks for the distraction," he said in mercifully intelligible English as he helped the man to his feet. "Lieutenant Barclay of the _USS Enterprise_?"

"That's me," Barclay replied, clutching a bruised elbow as he stared at the supersoldier. "And you're… the Master Chief, right? I mean, if I'm not crazy. You'd know. If you're him, I mean."

Barclay looked at the Imperial soldier at his feet again, worry creasing his face. "I'm not crazy, am I?"

The Chief stepped over the stormtrooper and walked around Barclay. The man grimaced, suddenly annoyed at the anxiousness that had been in his voice, and turned to follow the Spartan.

"How did you get here?" he asked. "Where are the others? Where are _we_?"

"Later," the Chief replied without turning back. "Right now, we have to get out of this hallway. Each of those soldiers has a comm unit in their helmets, and at least one of them must have gotten off an alert. Now, grab a weapon and follow me."

Barclay stopped and cast about, settling on the blaster that the trooper he had knocked over still clutched. The immobile man's grip was still tight and he had to haul at the steely fingers before they released the rifle with an almost mechanical slackening. Barclay shivered, hugged the weapon close, and jogged away to catch up with the Chief, who had already come to the end of the long chamber.

The Spartan stared at the huge Imperial cog for a moment and then set about inspecting the doorways to either side. One was evidently another turbolift, as evidenced by the sizeable control interface mounted beside it.

"We should get off of this floor," Barclay offered.

The Chief shook his head. "If these lifts can be deactivated remotely, we'd be trapped. I'd rather not get in one until we have to."

The other door was sealed fast, and did not budge even when the Chief tried to wedge his gauntleted fingers into its seam.

"We'll have to find another way," the Chief said shortly. "And fast. If we weren't being watched before, someone's going to be looking for us now."

Nervously, Barclay scanned the walls and ceiling for any obvious surveillance equipment. He saw nothing, but the Chief seemed uncomforted by that fact and immediately turned back down the corridor. When Barclay made to follow him, he noticed that the little, dome-headed droid had trundled along with them. As he watched, the astromech rolled to the locked door, planted itself in front of it, and popped open a hatch on its curved side. A thin, plug-tipped arm shot from its chassis and the droid inserted it into a small port near the base of the doorframe.

As it worked, the machine rotated its dome head 180 degrees to face Barclay, and it emitted a plaintive series of tones.

Barclay stared into the bulbous, black eye. He had been fascinated by droids during his brief time onboard the _Republica_, but he had lacked the time to learn more than a few cursory technical details about them. Many of the Alliance crewers he had encountered seemed to regard the machines, many of them squat maintenance models like this one, as simple pieces of equipment, so many walking toolkits or talking energy conduits, but a few others had viewed them with a great deal more respect. Barclay recalled one technician holding a lift door for a square-headed unit, just as though it were any other member of the crew. To someone who had served his entire career on ships where automation was exclusively integrated into bulkheads, the idea had been extremely curious.

Then again, perhaps it wasn't so strange. Commander Data was no more flesh and blood than the little astromech, and no one who served more than a day with him would dismiss the android as a simple computer.

His eyes lingering on the droid, Barclay called to the Chief.

"Wait! Come back!"

The Chief was back at the end of the corridor in seconds, his blaster at the ready. He looked from the interfacing droid to Barclay, plainly uneasy.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure," Barclay said, shaking his head. "It was with Darth Vader when we were escorted into this place."

The Chief stiffened sharply. "Darth Vader?"

He leveled his blaster at the droid. The machine spat something unpleasant at the Spartan, but did not interrupt its work.

"Wait!" Barclay shouted, slapping a hand on the raised muzzle. "It saved my life back there! I don't know if it's Vader's or what it's doing here, but… I think it's trying to help us."

The Chief glared at the resolute R2 unit, his weapon still aimed fixedly at its tubular body. The little machine stared back with its round, expressionless lens for a moment, and then started to whistle and beep again. The tone was no longer indignant; it seemed to Barclay that the droid was calling out in alarm. Furthering the impression, its head turned back towards the wall socket, as though it were fixing the sum of its energies on whatever it was trying to do.

A distant hum manifested behind them, and both humans turned to see that several of the lights on the lift's control panel were newly lit. Immediately, the Chief turned his weapon on the turbolift door, backing away as he did. Barclay followed suit, almost tripping over the droid as it continued its fevered task.

The R2 unit loosed a loud whistle, and a firm pivot of its interfacing arm sent the locked door panels retreating into the wall. The droid wasted no time in retracting the apparatus and skating into the space beyond.

"Chief!" Barclay shouted earnestly.

The humming had grown into a low rumble from below. The Chief paused a moment, swept the open doorway with his blaster, and was through it, Barclay at his side. Another moment and the doors closed fast, unmarked by the fugitives' passage.

* * *

Sharp corners and broad passageways marched swiftly past Jacen's eyes, an endless, unchanging landscape of drab colors and lifeless artifice. He moved without any real sense of direction or orientation, any measure of caution he'd maintained before gone. His legs seemed to be moving in isolation from his conscious thoughts, guided only by the sensation that had taken hold of his mind and refused to loosen its iron grip.

He had perceived her on some level almost since the rift had deposited them on Coruscant. At first, he had not fully understood the significance of the distant familiarity; it was like déjà vu, or a dream that he couldn't quite remember. Still, something had compelled him to follow the indistinct path that existed only in his mind, a minor eddy or occasional fluctuation in the Force that pointed him down one hall and through another door. Nevertheless, he had kept himself alert, and as he and the Chief had progressed further into an increasingly familiar labyrinth of deserted Imperial formality, the hair on the back of his neck had begun to stand on end. There was something wrong here, an unsettling presence that transcended the simple massing of stormtroopers.

The appearance of the patrol had brought the peril of their situation into clearer focus, and Jacen had almost resolved to turn back in spite of the beckoning impulse.

Then, as he had watched the first soldiers pass from his hiding place, a wave of recognition had nearly overwhelmed him. Strangling a gasp, he had retreated further back, grabbing the wall for support. He had felt the wrenching, unreal presence before, on Poloon Three, only days after he had awakened onboard the _Enterprise_. That time, it had cast him into unconsciousness, and he had never really been certain what had overcome him.

Now, on a level that seemed to transcend the Force, he understood.

Darth Vader was near.

He was a bloody ghost from a dark past Jacen had never fully understood. To him, Vader had been a fable, a parable on the dangers and subtle allure of the Dark Side. The man behind the black, nightmare mask was distant, reachable only during his few glimpses of the Dark Side, and then only briefly. After all, to a member of the Solo line, Vader was more than dead and gone; Master Skywalker had been sure to temper his cautionary tales with those of redemption, recounting Anakin Skywalker's victory over Emperor Palpatine and the darkness within himself at Endor. In Jacen's world, Vader had ceased to be and Anakin had died a hero. His own brother had been named in the Jedi's honor.

But this was not Jacen's world. The Vader he felt was a towering storm of rage and dark power, undiluted by any perceptible light. Peripherally, he had known there was something else there too, but the Sith Lord was still distant, and he had been afraid to probe the sensation more closely.

He might have gathered the courage to touch the brooding aura again, but something else seized his thoughts. For all his might, Vader was not the thing that had drawn him so far; the other was still distinct, and very close. Somehow, Vader's presence seemed to crystallize her in his mind.

_Aayla is alive! _

For an instant, he could almost see the Twi'lek Jedi. Through the Force, he felt her heart beating next his own and perceived the luminous blue of her skin. The flash of clarity was all to brief, gone again with harsh abruptness, but it left Jacen breathless. All at once, he remembered their first meeting and the singular connection they had shared, strangers united by the Force where the Force itself was foreign. He remembered his fast-growing attachment to the strong, confident woman, and the few, joyful moments they had shared.

Then, he felt the old, sickening helplessness. He recalled awakening after the escape from Poloon to find that she stayed behind to cover his flight. Through everything that had happened since, he had held onto the shame of that moment, unable to accept her loss and unwilling to forgive himself for falling in her time of need.

But she was alive. It did not matter how she survived, or why her presence seemed attuned to the darkness of the Imperial hub. She needed him, and this time he would not fail her.

Not even the Dark Lord of the Sith would stand between them.

* * *

Jacen sprinted down a wide, windowless corridor, his footsteps echoing dully off of polished, ebony stone. The vaulted ceiling above him sloped sharply, emblematic off the massive, pyramidal face that was its exterior side. The Jedi now recognized the distinctive architecture, remembered his parent's descriptions of the place and felt the truth intuitively; this was the great palace of the Imperial City, the crowning jewel of Emperor Palpatine's New Order. Even in Jacen's time, the colossal structure retained discordant vestiges of its grim past; now, it was a mountainous monument to the might of the Dark Side, and he had reached its summit.

No living thing stood in the Jedi's way. Where silent, watchful sentinels in crimson raiment once stood rank upon rank, echoes resounded unimpeded. No stormtrooper would dare to take their place; the palace's peak had been Palpatine's innermost sanctum, and with its master usurped, it was his tomb. Even the least Force-sensitive could feel the lingering, perilous tendrils of his power.

Nevertheless, Jacen kept his lightsaber at the ready as he ran. He could sense that Aayla was in danger, and the extent of her peril seemed to mount with each step. Jacen tried to reach out to her, but his advance only seemed to cloud the other Jedi further, until direction was all he could perceive.

He squeezed the unlit pommel. That would be enough. Aayla was close.

And then, from behind an angled pylon of the ceiling, a massive gate came into view. Jacen skidded to a halt and tried to collect himself as he took in the towering, featureless double-doors. The sight of the obstacle, or perhaps what was beyond it, dismissed each calming mantra he could think of, and he was forced to make do with a short breathing exercise to slow his pounding heart. Counting gulps of air as he had done as a beginner seemed ludicrously childish in the gate's shadow, but it worked.

On the sixth breath, Jacen stepped forward. He was prepared to force the doors aside, but they swung easily inward at his approach. As the barrier gave way, a red-orange glow illuminated his face, washing away the harrowing gloom of the antechamber.

The Imperial Throne Room was no longer the commanding, cathedral-like space its master had commissioned. Its outer half was shorn away entirely, the edges of its high walls and squared ceiling burned and blackened. Beyond the open, half-space, the Coruscanti skyline sat resplendent in the waning, ruddy light. Monumental as they were, the towers dotting the endless field of processed metal and anonymous life that was the world's surface appeared small and insignificant from the vantage point, indistinct against the setting sun. The Imperial Palace loomed over its surroundings, peering down on them with the same smug contempt that had inspired its construction.

A single figure stood at the edge of the shorn floor. She looked out over the artificial landscape, apparently unaware of the Jedi's arrival.

"Aayla!" Jacen shouted. His voice cracked, fading quickly in the open air, and he ran towards her. His heart pounded again, rhythm forgotten.

The Twi'lek did not turn or speak, or make any other move to acknowledge him. Halfway across the intact space, Jacen's footsteps slowed, and he reached out to Aayla through the Force.

"Aayla?"

The being he felt was veiled. When he tried to touch her mind with his, the emanation of his inner self broke upon an invisible cliff face. The guarded warmth and focused strength he remembered were gone. In their place, cold artifice kept him locked out, obscuring thought and memory. All that Jacen could clearly perceive was a profound, alien power, one that Aayla didn't care to hide or could not contain.

A gust of wind blew across the open chamber, buffeting Jacen's confused features. He suddenly realized it was bitterly cold; his tunic was little protection against the chilling cross-breeze. Fully in the wind's path, Aayla stood unmoved by the cold.

Confusion giving way to concern, Jacen took a few more steps forward and gritted through the icy draft, trying to think of some way to rouse the woman from her stupor. Before he could consider for than a few moments, however, she stepped back from the precipice and turned slowly to face him. Their eyes met, and words died in his throat.

"Jacen Solo," she said, her tone perfectly measured.

The voice was wonderfully familiar. Jacen's doubts blew away in the wind, and he felt aching relief flow through every inch of his body. Overcome, he covered the distance between them in a few long strides and threw his arms around her shoulders. She did not resist, and he tightened the embrace, reveling in the substance of her physical form even if he could still not clearly see her through the Force. Aayla's arms moved onto Jacen's back tentatively. At the touch of the right one, encased in an arm-length glove, his skin prickled.

"You're alive!" Jacen said breathlessly, still holding her fast. "We all thought you were dead. I thought you were dead! I'm sorry I left you on Poloon. I was overwhelmed, but… but I'm stronger now. I'll get you out of this place."

"Solo," the Twi'lek repeated quietly. "Ah, yes. The secret one. Darth Vader never did learn of you." She chuckled. "Good. Very good."

Jacen barely heard her. His conscious mind was still overcome with the release of tension that had brooded within the recesses of his being for what seemed like an eternity. Nevertheless, something about her response was unsettling.

"What happened, Aayla? Vader was on Poloon. I know that now. Did you face him? Did he bring you here?"

The alien woman was silent. Slowly, Jacen tried to pull away and look her in the eyes once more, but her arms remained fully placed on his back, holding him against her. Shifting uncertainly, one of Jacen's hands fell on one lekku hanging from the base of her neck. Its skin was clammy and cold.

"Are you injured?" he asked, euphoria draining away.

"I am perfectly fine," the Twi'lek replied. "In fact, I feel far better than I've felt in a long time. The air up here is… invigorating."

The voice sounded the same as it had before, but as she spoke, Jacen felt and underlying resonance to the words that he had not noticed before.

"All right, then. We have to get out of here. I may have been tracked getting here, and I don't know who might be coming after us. The Master Chief is back inside the Palace, and I think we have a way out. Come on."

Jacen tried again to disengage, more firmly this time, but he found himself held in place by Aayla's arms. When he tried a third time, the limbs pressed themselves against his back with unanticipated force and he suddenly found it hard to breath.

"Leave?" she asked quietly. "Feel the wind on your skin, Solo. Isn't it glorious? Why would you want to leave?"

"What are you doing?" Jacen gasped, pushing uselessly against the lean, resolute muscles of Aayla's limbs. "We can't stay. Please, let me go."

"But you wanted to be with me so badly, young Jedi. I remember the way you looked at me. I felt your joy at the touch of this body. Surely, no other has claimed your affections? Come, stay with me awhile. We have a great deal to discuss."

Jacen sensed an immaterial hand settle upon his skull and press into it. At once, his mental defenses flared in alarm, but he was helpless as the outermost layer of his thoughts began to peel away, bewilderment and agitation pushed aside in favor of the thoughts and memories beneath. It took him only an instant to realize that Aayla was attempting to bore into his consciousness, and an instant more for blind shock to manifest an instinctual response. He pushed back against the violating tendril, and found that the Twi'lek's mental barrier had vanished.

Darkness overcame Jacen so quickly and so completely that he blacked out momentarily, coming too utterly disoriented and without even basic muscular control. It was all he could do not to vomit.

His body moved away from Aayla's, totally limp in her arms. Reeling from the sensory and metaphysical overload, unable to comprehend what he had just felt, Jacen's head lolled backwards, bringing him face to face with the woman. The comforting hazel of her irises had disappeared; slit-black pupils encircled by coronas of red and yellow burned there instead.

"You are truly fascinating. Vader's grandson? His offspring must have outlasted their mother." The humorless laugh that followed was still in Aayla's voice, but there resonance had amplified dramatically, and it rang in Jacen's mind with far more potency then mere words could convey. The tone he heard was dry and cracked, worn with far more than simple age and heavy with a power that sprang from the depths of the Dark Side.

"No matter. You hold a secret of your own, one far more valuable than Skywalker blood. This one knew little of what brought you and your friends to this place, but you know far more, don't you? Perhaps this… troublesome ordeal will be worthwhile, after all."

A surge of adrenaline pulsed through Jacen, and he pushed away from the Twi'lek's grasp with all the strength he could summon. This time, the arms fell away and he was free. He landed, just barely on his feet, two meters away, and was forced to simultaneously steady himself and hold back the renewed threat of heaving. The burning, slit eyes watched him with condescending amusement.

"Your weapon, Jedi."

She pointed to a metal tube near her feet, dropped when Jacen had lost consciousness. He avoided her gaze, determined not to open himself up to another mental assault, but he did reach out for the pommel of his lightsaber. The weapon leapt obediently towards his outstretched hand. A thin smile split Aayla's face, and she flicked two fingers at the shape as it flew. The lightsaber continued its course to Jacen, but instead of flying neatly into his palm, it arced away from the hand at the last second and the heel of the tube planted itself in the Jedi's jaw with a crack.

Jacen reeled back with a pained grunt, but he remained standing. The lightsaber hit the floor between his boots, and when he bent warily to retrieve it, the other made no move to stop him. The blade snapped to life, and Jacen squared himself against the being he had come to save. His mind still swam, but his brush with the dark mind was clear in its meaning.

"I don't know what's happened to you, Aayla," he said slowly, spitting out blood. "I don't know how you could have fallen, but that doesn't matter now. You were a Jedi Knight, and I know that you still are, deep down. I felt it, when you called out to me before. You can still turn back. The Dark Side isn't the only path."

She laughed again.

"What do you know of the Dark Side, boy? Through it, I have powers that no Jedi has ever attained, much less a deluded child, feeding off of the scraps that the Jedi Order left behind when it was destroyed."

Jacen shook his head. "I… I am a Jedi. Just like Master Skywalker, and his father before him. Just like you, Aayla. We've both fought the Dark Side before, and we've both overcome it. Remember what I told you. Remember what Anakin was able to do. He was deceived by the darkness, thought he could use it for good. He came back in the end, and I know you can, too."

He lowered his lightsaber. "I didn't have a chance to really get to know you, but I knew from the moment we met that you were a good person. Whatever the reason, no matter why you let yourself fall, I'm sure it was for a just purpose. Remember that purpose now. Did the sacrifice work? Is this worth it?"

Aayla frowned. "My purpose? I can't remember… I don't…"

She placed a hand on her forehead, and turned away from Jacen.

"What am I doing?" Her voice was suddenly plaintive. "What's happened to me?"

Jacen took a step forward, lowering his lightsaber still further.

"I don't know Aayla, but I can help you. Just come with me. We can fight the darkness together."

Another step put Jacen almost within arm's reach of her. He saw the pained look on her face, and moved his free hand slowly towards her. As he did, she looked up, and the Jedi froze. The Twi'lek's eyes blazed with malice and dark power.

"You really are an idealistic little fool. Perhaps you're not so far from the old Order, after all."

"Aayla…"

The spiteful smile returned. "As I said, little Jedi, you don't know the power of the Dark Side of the Force."

Blue lightning erupted from Aayla's right hand. Jacen was completely unprepared as the current flowed into him, and barely perceived what was happening as the voltage seethed across his body, sending rivulets of agony coursing into his brain. He tried to raise his lightsaber to divert the flow, but the energy was already overpowering. Aayla splayed her hand, thrusting it forward, and the arcing stream of crackling force intensified. Jacen screamed.

He landed on his back, blown off of the floor by the force of the shock. The current ceased, but his nerves still burned with pain, and his senses were overcome by numbness. Dazedly, he tried to roll onto one side, only to find that Aayla was standing directly over him, her smile broad.

"Exhilarating," she said, her voice entirely subsumed by the alien resonance. "It has been far too long."

Jacen attempted to push away from her, yielding an uncontrollable series of hacking coughs.

"Please. Aayla…"

The Twi'lek crouched next to him. Before he could even try to stop her, she scooped up his lightsaber from the floor and clipped it to her belt opposite her own undrawn hilt.

"Even now, you don't understand. The Dark Side is not simply the power to destroy. It is the power of life, more even than your vaunted Light. With it, the strong can persist, even when the weak mass against them."

She held her arms up to her face, admiring them. "I'm sure that your master taught you that physical bodies are simple hunks of flesh, finite and interchangeable. It is the power inside them that matters. Most are bound to their physical forms, but true masters of the Force are not constrained by such weakness. They are truly limitless, and one body is easily discarded for the next. It is a simple matter to dismiss the simple minds within a new shell when one is needed."

Jacen stared up at her, his eyes wide. He had dared to reach out towards her with the Force once again, and this time, he could perceive the being beneath skin and bone.

"Yes, young Jedi. Now you see. Sith do not die easily."


	55. Chapter Seventy Three

**Chapter Seventy Three**

Tassadar's body was falling, and his mind with it. This was not the momentary disorientation of submersion in the disembodying rift, the wrenching descent that merged into eternity. This was reality. Real wind lashed at his face and kept his eyes closed fast. Real pain burst from his gut.

He flailed, and his arms tossed lamely back and forth against the rushing air current before they were pushed again against his armored sides. He forced one eye open and absorbed a plane of solid, dark blue, broken by the crests and smooth sides of tiny, pale forms. Pain from the wind and from his midsection forced the eye to close quickly, but the Protoss knew.

Freefall, headfirst and a thousand meters above the surface of an unknown ocean. In his best condition, the impact would be fatal.

He attempted to summon the energies of the High Templar to him, imagining a psionic cocoon that could encase his wounded body and willing it to be. Sparks crackled down his arms, but he could manifest nothing more. The exertion prompted a flare of pain from the gash, and Tassadar could feel the soft tissue of his belly tearing and bleeding into the whipping air. Rumbling with aggravation that bordered on panic, he compelled the atmosphere around him to shift and darken, hoping to form a cushion beneath his tumbling form. The Dark Templar technique was rewarded only with more pain.

_It's not the fall that kills you, Tassadar._

The Protoss forced open an eye, but he didn't need to. Kerrigan was plummeting beside him now, and feel the sneer on her cracked lips as clearly as he could see it.

_Today, that honor is all mine. _

Tassadar felt the weight of a clawed hand pressing down on his chest, and his world convulsed. He felt what little energy he had not expended in the futile attempts to save himself from the fall leach away at her touch, and he almost black out. Sheer will and self-preservation instinct saved him from that fate, and when he recovered, the fall had ceased and he was adrift again in the vital, inter-dimensional ocean.

Impulsively, he funneled the ambient energies into himself, desperate to replace what Kerrigan had taken from him. The renewed power flowed into him and he was suddenly refreshed and able to think clearly again, but the respite did not last. As abruptly as the planar juxtaposition had come, her essence assaulted his again, and he felt himself dragged back towards the great quartet of upwellings. He attempted to resist and pull away from the Dark Queen, but her hold was too tight, and he could only bide as she selected a pinpoint of variance from the converging currents and tossed them both into it.

In a baked, rocky desert, Tassadar felt his face ground into the dry sand. Within a murky river, he all but drowned. An alien city on an alien world saw him smashed through dense glass until blood flowed from a hundred cuts. In the blackness of deep space, he froze and asphyxiated at once for an endless second.

Again and again, Kerrigan threw him into the real world, wounding and humiliating the Templar in new and excruciating ways. Again and again, the rifts opened around them and Tassadar felt his strength renew, only to be torn away with the next forced emergence. By the third fleeting, agonizing episode, he knew he was beaten; with his refilling reserves of power and her knowledge of the terrible, inter-planar expanse, she could cast him wherever she wished, wearing away at his ravaged body with each successive trip. Even resisting the fresh influxes of energy couldn't break the cycle; somehow, the ambient power of the rift seeped into him all the same, and Kerrigan gleefully renewed her assault.

Tassadar did not know how many times he was thrown into realspace and then recalled. The myriad of sights and pains flickered across his failing senses and flowed together in his mind, until he could barely summon a coherent thought from the torturous morass. The moons of Aiur. The dark ravines of Shakuras. Human faces. Protoss faces. A familiar starfield, spread out before him like the pages of a book. Whether these were new images, memories, or delusion, he no longer could clearly discern.

When the Templar at last heard his name, he only recognized it because the psionic resonance was clear meant for him.

_Glorious, Tassadar, glorious! You truly are a credit to your species. It's fitting that you are one of its last remnants. Any number of lesser creatures would have succumbed to my onslaught, but your body still lives and your sanity is still intact. _

Kerrigan filled his perception, and he could see her eyes once again. They were wide and filled entirely by the jet of her pupils, engorged on the very essence of the flow between universes.

_I hope you have saved enough of yourself to appreciate this moment, good Templar. The broken shell that your core will soon become is more than sufficient to draw the energy I need from this realm. The portals are already forming and closing at my whim. With you, nothing will be impossible!_

A conduit?

The singular thought pierced the swirling fog of Tassadar's intellect. She had referred to him as a conduit before, but he had disregarded the word in his zeal. Now, however, her full meaning took shape before his mind's eye. Before, he had assumed that Kerrigan had needed to sap his own psionic energies to control the rifts, but plainly, they were not nearly enough. Instead, he had only survived so long because the inter-dimensional space had replenished him with each visit. Even now, he felt the endless ocean filtering through psychic pores, clearing away mental debris and focusing his thoughts. The amount of energy available must be limitless, more than Tassadar could hope to ever control or comprehend.

No, the Protoss corrected himself. It was more than _any_ mortal being could reckon with.

Realization swept away his pain. For one precious moment, he perceived the majesty of the great, lost plane about him, untainted by Kerrigan's cancerous presence. He saw the endless currents of fundamental energy that bound universes together, each a small facet of a whole grander than any who had not encountered it could comprehend. He felt the glow of uncounted stars across uncounted realities, each one with its own distinct warmth. He touched the life-force of beings separated by more than space and time, and yet undeniably attuned to the same vastness.

He felt a profound sadness as the moment of clarity faded away, eclipsed once more by the corrupted human's power, but his resolve did not waver. He was a Templar, a son of Khas, and he would see his mission through.

Tassadar could feel Kerrigan's essence closing upon his, her tendrils already outstretched.

This time, he did nothing to resist. Tassadar opened himself to her, intertwining light and dark energies and unfurling them into the waiting maw.

_I am yours, my Queen. Eternity awaits._

Kerrigan drew in the Protoss in greedily, seizing hold of each morsel of consciousness and each strand of power with unsurpassed relish. To Tassadar's surprise, the sensation was not at all unpleasant. It was as though he was falling into a deep slumber, with bits of musing and memory drifting off into the ether before his mind succumbed to soft, dark relief.

Distantly, almost oblivious to Kerrigan's voracious feeding, Tassadar set what remained of his being to one task. He reached out into the flow submerging him, willing it align with his diminishing being. As a minute ripple emanated from him through the trackless reach, an unpleasant smothering intruded upon his last, sheltered thoughts, but he did not attempt to repel it. The intruder became as much a part of him as the endless vital sea and the cooling ember of his own mind.

The exertion robbed the Protoss of the last extremity of his will, and silent numbness descended upon him, an entire lifetime of weariness. There was little left to resist the pull of sleep. A few words and cherished memories were all that he had kept with him. For the second time in his life, High Templar Tassadar settled into a deep, untroubled dream.

The Queen of the Zerg continued to devour the other's pith, utterly unaware of his fading thoughts. Years of disappointment, boredom, and meticulous planning had made her victory all the sweeter, and when Protoss light and dark gave way to the pure, untainted stream of cosmic essence, she could not contain herself. Energy flowed into her at an awe-inspiring rate; by herself, she had never been able to absorb even half of what now poured in effortlessly, invigorating every corner of her consciousness. Even in the depths of the inter-dimensional realm, she could feel the flow of universes quicken around her. The sensation was intoxicating, and she drank even deeper.

Grand designs formed in her head, products of long hours of brooding as she waited for her machinations to work their way through the Alpha Quadrant. Immediately, she dismissed them; they were small, fancies of a mind still restrained by the confines of her own limited reality. The Queen of Blades could do far better. Soon, she would surpass even the creators of the device that made her dreams manifest, and her empire would encompass four universes and beyond. And then? She would be a god.

Perfection.

Suddenly, the self-ordained deity had an urge to test her new powers. She had all the power she would ever need to control the rifts now. Indeed, she was so saturated with new energy that she was beginning to have difficulty thinking clearly. With a certain amount of reluctance, she savored the glorious flow a moment longer, and then let it go.

The stream continued its course into her, funneling through the seething shell of her exposed intellect, which grew in volume and intensity with the influx. Slightly irritated and increasingly uncomfortable, the god tried to release the flow again.

It was only when her second attempt failed that she realized that every trace of the Protoss' mental energy had dissipated, and in its place, the great cosmic tide had formed a new current, one that flowed directly into her. There was nothing to let go of.

The painful overabundance of energy arcing through her became excruciating, and the god felt fear. She lashed out at the void, ramming the rending tentacles of her will into its widening stream, but they flared and burned at the ferocity of the torrent. The god tried to withdraw them from it, but the psychic emanations had already melted away, replaced by new strands of streaming energy that joined their primary in its inalterable course. New and unimagined torment washed over her as more energy poured through the fresh tributaries.

The god's perceptions pulsed with obscuring luminance, and the realm around her began to dissolve into a haze of blinding light. Rage, confusion, and fear melted into an incoherent miasma, a thundercloud assailed endlessly by barbs of jagged lightning that settled upon her conscious thoughts, disrupting and drowning them. Self-preservation instinct alone emerged uncompromised, burned free of ambition and Zerg biological engineering.

She thrashed desperately, clawing at the eddies and currents of the plane, conscious of nothing other than a desire to escape the pain that was overwhelming her. The exertion only brought a sensation of bloated, tired numbness, and her aimless throes redoubled.

No longer really aware of her psychic presence in the void, the god thought she could feel her corporeal form wrapping itself back around her. For a moment, the presence of skin, bones, and blood was comforting; this was something she could control, something she could fight back in. It was still hers, and nothing could defeat such a perfect form.

But even as she tried to settle into the body and move her limbs against the suffocating blackness, her extremities lost feeling. She looked at a hand, only to see it scored with blazing rifts that belched helixes of black and blue-white light. The fissures spider-webbed down her arm, and she felt her legs and torso dissolving with the same piercing luminance. She opened her mouth to scream, but her lower jaw had fallen slack and useless, cracked with an inner light that was not her own.

As her eyes went dead, splintered by the sundering light, a single thought blazed in her mind, and her form ignited like a sunrise. The last mental wall breached, a wave of energy burst from what was left of Kerrigan, turning aside lesser flows as it propelled that final memory across timeless space.

_Eternity awaits. _

* * *

Jacen's eyes flashed open and his mouth gaped wide, its edges flecked with froth. A long, strangled scream issued from him, lingering in the chamber's high corners before echoing out into the dusky sky. He could do nothing to silence the wail; every fraction of his willpower was focused inward, and it was all he could do to keep his sanity under the assault. The Jedi's frame convulsed violently and his back arched sharply upward. His arms lay limply to either side, pinned to the floor by unseen hands.

The lithe form of Aayla Secura kneeled over the man, straddling his chest as her palms pressed against his skull. Her eyes bored into Jacen's, piercing them with malice that had brooded and festered for decades before the Twi'lek's birth. Invisible, corrosive energies poured from her fingertips, products of dark arts that no Jedi had ever dared employ. The gleeful, crooked grin that split her youthful features was borne of an ancient bitterness few living beings could comprehend.

The being beyond Aayla's darkened eyes was known by a hundred names, on a million worlds. Darth Sidious. Senator. Supreme Chancellor. Master of the Sith. Schemer. Enslaver. Murderer.

Emperor.

Palpatine delved into the young Jedi's mind, shattering mental barriers and peeling away unwanted memories with a surgeon's practiced skill and a gourmand's appetite. He leafed through guarded secrets and peered at unvoiced thoughts with contemptuous ease, relishing the agony that each new incursion unleashed upon his victim.

"I had forgotten how invigorating it is to break a conscious, unwilling mind," he hissed with breathless exuberance, leaning closer and digging Aayla's fingers into Jacen's scalp. "And you, young Solo, are most worthy of the effort. All this, and you still resist me? If you survive, you will make a fine agent of my will. I am in need of replacements."

Jacen gagged and ground his teeth. His neck bent against the Twi'lek's grip, but she held his head fast.

"I'll… I'll never join you!"

The wicked grin on Aayla's faced widened. "Still so naive. Look at this face. Look at your pretty, alien friend. She resisted me, too. When I was forced from my old body and found her mind, she was as defiant as you are now. Empty Jedi platitudes diluted her thoughts and pointless restraint bound her power, but I dug past them. I found a seed in her, a fragment of doubt, one that dwells within all those who possess power but not the will to wield it. She had seen the pure, uninhibited truth of the Dark Side, and felt its might. It was a simple matter to nurture that seed; it thrives upon emotion, and your friend was a sea of anger and desire, barely muzzled by her masters. Yes, in the end she tried to fight me, but blind serenity and restraint cannot withstand the truth of nature."

"The Light that you worship is nothing, Jedi. A pale illusion conjured up by those too cowardly to harness the full power within them. There is only the Dark Side, and it _is_ the Force. I _am_ the Sith, Solo, and the Force serves _me_. Secura could not deny my power, and neither will you."

Fresh torment lashed at Jacen as Palpatine tore deeper into his mind. The Jedi knew what the intruder desired, and it was all he could do to keep it from him. When their minds had touched, the Sith glimpsed recent memories, and that meant that he had seen Kerrigan and her rifts. Jacen knew that Palpatine and the Zerg Queen shared more than a fondness for deception; both nursed an insatiable need to dominate. If the fallen Emperor found one of the ancient's gateways, darkness would descend as surely as if Tassadar failed in his crusade.

And so Jacen resisted. He had been trained to oppose mental incursions, but this attacker was unlike any his masters could have anticipated. Palpatine's will towered over his own, and as the Sith Lord's assault continued, he knew that no secret could be sheltered for long. Each barrier he erected withered away under Palpatine's gaze, and each failed effort racked his mind, boiling away memories and miring thought. Sanity itself was beginning to give way before the dark mind, and Jacen knew that once that was gone, nothing stood between Palpatine and his prize.

_You can't win this way. Withdrawing and defending won't keep him out. _The voice was his, eager and reassured. _But there is another way. Fight back._

Palpatine was too strong. Jacen wasn't prepared to face the destroyer of the Jedi Order alone. Even Master Skywalker was barely able to withstand the dark being's might.

_But Luke did survive. He did not best Darth Vader by retreating and hiding. He did not endure Palpatine by retreating inside of himself. He lashed out, and his anger gave him power. _

But Luke refused to give into the Dark Side.

_And his refusal almost killed him. You are alone, Jacen. No one is here to save you. _

Jacen summoned the few comforting thoughts he could, flickering candles against the pounding thunder of the Sith's advance. The faces of his family, proud defenders of the Light all. The Jedi Praxeum, where he had learned to control the power within and use it to protect others. The Code, clear and calming. Laura, determined and beautiful.

Each was part of him, and he would not betray everyone and everything that mattered to him. There were worse things than death.

_But you will not be the only one to die. Once Palpatine has broken you, just as he destroyed Aayla, he will know of the rifts. Even if Kerrigan does not spread her ruin across space and time, he will. Do you think Mom and Dad will be safe, then? Will Laura?_

The serene images shattered. Jacen was alone, trapped by the impending storm.

_What good is the Light if it cannot save what you love? _

In a moment of clarity, Jacen saw Aayla's face, less than a meter from his own. Her lips were still frozen in a vile sneer, and her pupils were void-like slits, wreathed in flame. The man could still remember her as she had once been, could still see her confident smile and feel the kindness in her eyes. He missed the familiar face, longed for so achingly that the pain almost overshadowed the searing of Palpatine's intrusion.

Their eyes were locked. Jacen realized that he loathed the creature that had robbed Aayla of her body, and now peered out with such arrogance and disdain. He _hated_ Palpatine.

His chest tightened, and he could feel it warming from within. Jacen's jaw closed, and he felt his lips draw back into a sneer.

The huge double doors at the throne room's end began to move. Immediately, Palpatine pulled back from Jacen, breaking eye contact and removing Aayla's hands from the man's head. The sudden cessation of the mental assault and release of pressure shook the Jedi's world, and his thoughts scattered. The kindling flame in his chest guttered, and he fell still.

Palpatine rose slowly, eyes fixed on the doors as they parted.

"Lord Vader," he said through Aayla's curled lips. "Unannounced, as always."

Darth Vader pressed into the open chamber without a word. His black facemask was fixed and emotionless, but the rest of his figure was alive with energy. His heavy cape whipped behind him with a force that surpassed that of the chilling wind. His armored chest and broad shoulders heaved noticeably with every step, and each mechanical breath was a hiss. He held a lightsaber in his right hand, its crimson blade harsh against the dimming light.

"How goes the campaign, my lord?" Palpatine asked, outwardly unmoved by the other Sith's approach. "I trust that nothing untoward has drawn you back to Coruscant? I have endeavored to fulfill your wishes to the best of…"

The gloved fingers of Vader's left hand wrapped around Aayla's throat and he yanked her from the floor. She made no attempt to resist as he brought her face centimeters from his own.

"My son is dead," Vader said, his voice slow and raw.

Aayla's mouth opened and her neck bulged, but no sound emerged. Rather than relax his grip, Vader tightened it, burying his fingers in blue flesh.

"Who did this?" Even through his suit's vocalization system, the words trembled with rage. "Who killed Luke?"

A hand rose to claw at Vader's iron grip, and Aayla gritted her teeth. After a moment's pause, Vader's fingers loosened fractionally, barely enough to allow the Twi'lek a strangled breath.

"It… it wasn't me, my lord." The voice was weak and subdued, and Aayla looked away as Vader pulled her closer still.

"Then who?" the Sith demanded. "Look at me! Who killed my son?"

When Aayla's head turned to face Vader in full, her look of muted dismay had been replaced by an evil grin.

"You did. For all your efforts and all your power, you could not save him, and so you left. You left him here. You left him alone. He died because of your failure and your weakness."

Vader froze.

"Don't be so distressed, my lord," Aayla sneered, her voice swallowed by Palpatine's. "It's not like this hasn't happened before."

Her hands shot forward, pressing against the cyborg's plated chest. Lightning arced between her outstretched fingers, and Vader's front vanished in a burst of light. He fell backward, roaring as blue-white spasms coursed over his torso and down his arms. Free of his grasp, Palpatine alighted easily on the throne room floor.

Several meters away, Vader picked himself up off of his back and rose onto his haunches. His dark cloak hung loosely about him, smoking with the energy of Palpatine's lightning. He stared at the gloating Twi'lek face.

"I destroyed you," he said, the fury in his voice momentarily dulled by disbelief. "I felt you die."

Palpatine shook his head slowly.

"I taught you better than that, my apprentice. You know the power of the Dark Side better than anyone, and you know that I have mastered its every facet. I once offered you the power to stop death itself. That power was not a lie. You were simply too weak to wield it."

Lightning leapt from Palpatine's fingertips, but this time Vader was not caught off guard. He cast back the folds of his cloak and thrust the blade of his lightsaber out in front of him, catching the crackling teeth of energy as they arced through the air towards him. The jagged, luminous tendrils wrapped around the column of light and surged down it towards Vader's hands, but he angled the weapon downward and the flow reversed, sending a cascade of searing energy into the solid stone at his feet.

Palpatine interrupted the attack and withdrew his hands. His back straightened, and he flung the slender arms of his new body out to either side. Two pommels flew from his hips, landing and igniting in waiting palms. Vader raised his own blade from the floor and lowered his masked helm.

"No hidden pawns this time," Palpatine said, mirroring the other's stooped pose. "No reprieve and no mercy. Just as it is meant to be."

Both leapt forward in the same moment. Palpatine closed the gap in a heartbeat, leading with a pair of high, parallel slashes. Vader's blade caught the blows in the same movement, sweeping them aside in a swift, brutal stroke. Palpatine's attack had left his flank completely exposed and Vader powered through towards it, angling his lightsaber under the Twi'lek body's outstretched right arm. Even as the towering cyborg brought his weapon against the other's ribcage, he bent his legs and rolled under the blow. In the same movement, Palpatine swung himself forward under Vader's extended arms and brought his blades against the man's thigh.

The lightsabers barely scorched the black padding of his leg before the limb surged away from them. Vader smashed his knee into Palpatine's chest and the smaller figure fell backwards. He moved to follow up on the blow, but his adversary had already recovered, somersaulting back from her compromised position and landing on her feet several meters away, completely unfazed by the punishing impact.

"How marvelous it is to be young!" Palpatine shouted, twirling both of his weapons in full circles.

Vader was already in motion, covering the distance between them with a long stride and aiming a diagonal cut at Palpatine's unprotected neck. Palpatine dodged the blow easily and pressed his own attack, chopping at Vader's right shoulder with one blade and following immediately with the next. The first gouged the surface of the reinforced composite covering Vader's upper torso, but he recovered in time to repel the next, locking the green and blue beams with his own and regaining his footing.

He bore down on the crossed blades, pushing them back towards their master. For an instant, the Sith were eye to eye once again, their respective masks lit by the lightsabers' eerie glow. Then Palpatine gave way, leaving Vader to compensate for the force of his own assault as he made for his legs once more. Unable to sidestep the incursion, Vader brought the butt of his lightsaber down on Palpatine's neck, forcing him to divert his course and withdraw.

The dueling figures repeated the cycle of parry and riposte several times, moving back and forth across the wide chamber floor. Each time, Darth Vader pressed a strong, focused attack, throwing his physical might and force of will behind a single, devastating blow. Each time, Palpatine's slimmer, younger, lighter body would deflect or dodge the strike and lunge into counterattack, using multiple blades to feint and slip through Vader's defenses. After every exchange, one or the other would give ground, they would share a swift series of probing attacks and parries, and begin again.

With every bout, they moved closer towards the gaping, open edge of the blasted chamber. Vader could see that Palpatine was guiding them there, but he did not care. Rage still coursed through him, and all he could do was press onward. Shadowy faces and distant, instinctual warnings lurked at the edges of his consciousness, but an inferno of anger kept them at bay. The creature before him had to be destroyed. That was all that mattered.

Palpatine's lips creased with mocking confidence.

When they were little more than a meter from the brink, Vader launched another assault. Aayla blocked the blow, let it slide away from her, and then moved to flank her opponent once more. Rather than attack his legs or torso, however, she used one blade to punch several neat holes in the dense fabric near the edge of his cloak. Leaping back from the chamber's precipice, she reached out for the material and swept it towards the blasted rim. With uncanny precision, the trailing edge of the cloak found its way to the brink and the holes she had cut aligned with contusions in the melted surface.

Vader jerked after her, only to find himself pinned by the small of his back. He cast a confused, withering look back at his cloak, and Palpatine charge forward again, scoring a gash on Vader's upper right arm. The man hissed with mounting fury, and hauled against his caught raiment. Woven of the blaster-resistant fibers, the cloak would not yield, and Palpatine moved in for another swift clip.

The Twi'lek face flashed across Vader's vision, and he saw the gleeful sneer upon it. The other Sith was toying with him.

"Your anger gives you power, Vader," Palpatine said, withdrawing from the edge again. "But it controls you. It always has. Fury exists to be dominated and bent to one's will, just as the Force does. I have mastered both. You are their slave. One such as you is fit only to kill and intimidate, never rule. How can you control an empire if you cannot command your own emotions?"

"Perhaps you are correct, _my master_." Vader grabbed his cloak with his free hand. "Perhaps I cannot command this empire. Perhaps I am _still_ a slave. But I _can_ kill, and whatever trickery you used to escape me last time will not save you again."

With a single movement, Vader tore his cloak away. The reinforced fabric shredded against his might, leaving only ragged scraps protruding from his armored back. He cast away the rest, and it fell from the precipice into the descending night.

Palpatine crossed his blades in front of him.

"We shall see."

Jacen heard the crash and sizzle of crossed lightsabers. He opened his eyes and saw flashes of blue, red, and green played across the dark ceiling far above. For a moment, he was disoriented, distant and shivering in the cold. Then, in a rush, everything came back to him. Aayla. Palpatine. His own brush with the Dark Side. Everything.

He turned his head on the flat, hard stone. Halfway across the chamber, Aayla… Palpatine stood locked in combat, Jacen's lightsaber clutched in his left hand. Against him was a figure he had seen only in old holo-vids and fevered imaginings. Darth Vader stood as imposing and terrible as he had ever imagined, a tower of rage with a crimson blade in his hands.

Two nightmares warred almost within arm's reach, and Jacen knew he could not delude himself into thinking it all a dream. His head ached from the Sith's intrusion, and embers of hate still flickered at the back of his mind, waiting to be fanned again.

Grim realities played across his mind as the two fought, oblivious to their prone spectator. Aayla's dark fate and Palpatine's thirst for knowledge of the portals loomed heavily over him, but somehow the moment of hatred and rage that had almost taken hold of him dominated his thoughts. He had experienced the Dark Side before, but never in such a fundamental and visceral way. This time, it had not been borne of some external force or basic survival instinct.

The impulse to embrace the Dark Side had descended from reason. Calm, altruistic logic, cherished in Jedi philosophy, had compelled him to embrace everything he had spent a lifetime resisting. Had Darth Vader not intervened, and Jacen not lashed out in hatred, Palpatine would have broken him and taken his secret. The Light had not been enough.

Now, the two great evils of Jedi parable fought before him for reasons he could only guess at. If one, malice and greed, was victorious, he would undoubtedly return to Jacen and finish his gruesome feast. If the other, temptation and anger, prevailed, he would have to face a new and unknown danger.

Jacen tested his strength, and found he could barely push himself upright. He lacked the energy to run, much less fight. There was one reserve still available to him, but…

_No. I will not give in. Not yet._

The lingering flame behind his eyes receded further, but it did not vanish. He still felt his loathing for the creature inside of Aayla, and he did not have the strength or the will to suppress it entirely.

Jacen pushed himself to the closest wall and sank back against it, allowing the spectacle of the duel to wash over him.

Darth Vader was now firmly on the defensive. Each time he attempted to land a critical blow on Palpatine, the Sith used the speed and flexibility of his younger, unencumbered body to evade the attack and retaliate. Palpatine's hits were minor, some almost cosmetic, but they landed with each clash, and it was plain that the mounting number of gashes across Vader's body were beginning to take their toll. Already slower than his opponent, Vader's movements were becoming more sluggish still, and it was all he could do to rebuff Palpatine's more brazen attacks.

Yielding ground with each engagement, Vader eventually found himself pinned against the far wall of the throne room. Taking advantage of the Sith Lord's loss of mobility, Palpatine hammered at him from both sides, using his lightsabers to threaten Vader's flanks in a quickening, erratic series of slashes and jabs. At last, one found its way past the cyborg's defenses, and Palpatine barked a laugh as he drove one blade into Vader's hip.

Thinking his victim pinned and distracted, Palpatine slashed his other edge at Vader's neck guard. Rather than try to avoid or deflect the blow, Vader switched his lightsaber to one hand and wrapped the free arm around the one that had delivered Palpatine's first strike. The forward lurch and added pressure drove the blade deeper into his side, But Vader pressed on, throwing his weight into Palpatine and pushing off from the wall. The decapitating cut gouged the wall uselessly, and Palpatine was swung around and smashed bodily into the vertical surface. He gasped, the smile gone, and felt the bones in his pinned arm creaking under Vader's brawn.

He flicked the wrist of his trapped limb, raking a lightsaber blade across Vader's back, but the masked titan did not loosen his grip. Out of the corner of his eye, Palpatine saw a descending flash of red. Unable to avoid it physically, he pushed against the down-crashing arm and blade with the Force, willing it to bend away. Vader immediately recognized the exertion and countered the immaterial blast with one of his own, but the distraction was enough to loosen his hold on Palpatine's arm. Releasing its weapon, the thin Twi'lek limb slipped free.

As Palpatine ducked from the wall and spun away around Vader, Jacen could see that her escape had not come without a price. The arm, formerly enclosed in a long, black glove, was bear, its covering discarded in Vader's grasp. Just below the shoulder, smooth, blue skin gave way to a landscape of charred rot. Down to its emaciated, almost skeletal fingers, the arm was blackened with horrific burns that cracked the skin into jagged, irregular scales. Between the fissures livid, whitish growths bubbled and sprawled, spreading tendrils of tumor-like tissue around the elbow and down the forearm.

The Jedi's heart quickened at the gruesome sight; with the revelation, the darkness he felt radiating from Aayla's body became all the fouler, as though Palpatine's last façade had been tossed aside. The loss effected Palpatine as well, and he hissed with rage, throwing himself against Vader before the other could fully disengage from the wall.

The lost lightsaber flew back into Palpatine's hand and his assault on Vader renewed with ferocious vigor. The masked Sith managed to avoid being pinned once more and maneuvered the fight back into the open chamber, but he did so at the loss of any fresh initiative. Palpatine was a blur of light and motion, flanking, striking, and withdrawing faster than Vader could effectively track him.

With a stifled grunt, Jacen pulled himself onto his feet and slowly rose, using his wall for support. His eyes were fixed on Vader as the man wearily blocked another volley of blows. It was clear that he was losing, and as Jacen watched him yield step after step, it was plain that he wouldn't last much longer.

In some ways, Darth Vader was as dark and twisted as his master, but Jacen knew that the threat Palpatine posed was far greater. The Emperor was a true agent of the Dark, merciless and insatiable. For all his crimes, Darth Vader had once been something more, and Jacen knew that, deep inside of him, some part of the good that was Anakin Skywalker still clung. Palpatine had no such inhibition.

_Unless… _

Jacen's gaze focused on the putrefied arm. He paused a moment, took a deep breath, and pushed off from the wall.

Snarling, Vader lowered his guard, allowing a pair of blows to etch deep gouges in his chest plate. The interface panel on his chest began to spark, but he ignored it. Disregarding Palpatine's attacks, he freed himself to launch one of his own and did so with reckless abandon, bringing his saber to his side and charging forward, intent upon slamming his full force into Palpatine's unarmored flesh.

Rather than attempt to spin around the blow, Palpatine leapt back, barely avoiding a vicious, horizontal chop that easily could have bisected him. Exhaling through clenched teeth, the Sith drew Jacen's green blade back and then whipped it forward, releasing the pommel as he did. The lightsaber became a spinning disk of light and whistled through the air, aimed perfectly for Vader's black helm. Still charging after Palpatine, Vader swung his saber hard and wide, dashing the projectile from the air and sending it spinning away.

Palpatine had vaulted upward immediately after tossing the blade, propelling himself vertically more than three meters. Distracted by the lightsaber, Vader did not see him move, and found the space in front of him empty. He began to slow, only to feel the weight of two feet slamming down onto his shoulders. Reeling from the sudden impact and his own momentum, Vader could do nothing more than glare upwards as Palpatine, balanced precariously on rounded pauldrons, plunged his remaining blade downward. The blue beam punched through the shoulder plating of his sword arm, barely missing Palpatine's foot as it plunged deep into machinery and flesh.

Vader roared, staggering as Palpatine pulled his weapon free of smoking armor and jumped from the cyborg's frame. The towering Sith collapsed onto his knees and clutched at his wounded side. The right side of his torso sagged, its arm flopped uselessly against the floor. Vader's lightsaber rolled from limp fingers, silenced.

"A pity," Palpatine said, his voice dripping with disdain. He rounded the heaving form with jaunty ease, seemingly undiminished by their contest. The only hint of frailty was a slight tremor that ran through his despoiled fingers as they lowered the tip of their blade below the chin of Vader's mask.

The kneeling Sith turned his faceplate upwards to stare into Palpatine's sneering visage. He was silent, save for the weakened, rhythmic sigh of his breathing.

"I had great hopes for you, Lord Vader. You had limitless potential, once, but you have squandered it at every turn. Failure has dominated your life and consumed everyone you have ever cared for. Your mother, your wife, your son; all dead because you lacked the strength protect them from your enemies and from yourself. And now, at the end, you have only your life left to lose. You have failed to best me, and for that, I shall do what your old master should have done so many years ago."

The humming tip of Palpatine's edge probed towards the base of Vader's neck, but stopped abruptly, less than a centimeter from the black plate. He stiffened and looked up from his defeated foe, eyes wide. Then, in a swift, fluid motion, he spun away from Vader, brining his lightsaber up just in time to intercept another blade. Green and blue beams of energy strained against one another, hissing and crackling in the dusk.

Above the crossed blades, Jacen Solo stared into Palpatine's eyes, his gaze resolute.

"I am no fool," the Sith snarled. "This creature surprised me once. Never again."

"You are overconfident, Emperor," Jacen replied. "I resisted you. Darth Vader resisted you. If you couldn't break a failure and an ignorant boy like me, how could you truly break a Jedi knight? I know, deep down, she's still fighting you."

Jacen thought he could see Palpatine's lip tremble slightly, and that was enough to bring a tired smile to his own face.

The reaction was enough to provoke the Sith into action. With terrifying speed, he disengaged from Jacen's lightsaber and slashed at his chest. The Jedi deflected the blow, but Palpatine struck again and again, battering at the other's blade until he was able to flick it from his grasp. In an instant, Jacen felt a hand clench around his throat and the shaft of a lightsaber align beneath his chin.

"You do not need your tongue to tell me what I wish to know, Jedi," Palpatine hissed. "Be silent."

"You're afraid!" Jacen gasped through the vice-like grip. "Afraid that I'm right. What's the matter? Couldn't get rid of her as easily as you thought?"

Jacen felt the agonizing tendrils of Palpatine's will encroach on the verges of his conscious mind, but he did not retreat from them. He would not withdraw this time, would not accept defeat.

"I know you can hear me, Aayla! This isn't his body, and he doesn't have your mind! Whatever he's done, tried to show you, made you do, I know you're still in there! Look at your arm! That's all he is! A scar! A parasite! A weak, defeated thing, afraid of what you can still do!"

The hand at his throat tightened with unnatural strength, and Jacen began to gag.

The blood-shot coronas around the pupils of Palpatine's eyes shimmered with rage.

"Your friend is dead, Solo, not even a memory! Soon enough, I will show you the despair that I showed her."

Jacen's eyes bulged and the veins on his neck swelled, but he still managed to mouth a few words.

"Just… a… scar."

The skin at the base of his jaw flared with pain as scattered hairs burst into flame from the intensity of the blade.

Jacen closed his eyes.

_Kill me. That's all I can ask for now. _

There was a hissing whoosh from somewhere behind Palpatine. A lightsaber reigniting. Jacen braced himself, expecting the beam at his throat to leap forward. Hazily, he imagined what it would feel like as the column of heat cleaved through his neck, half saw Palpatine spinning back to face Vader once more as his head tumbled to the floor.

The blow did not come. Searing heat still racked his nerves, but it did not resolve into the overwhelming pulse of the lightsaber itself. Disoriented, Jacen opened his eyes a crack. Through the dull glare of the blue edge, he could see Aayla's face, still only centimeters from his own. The Twi'lek face was a mask of bewilderment far greater than his own, fixed squarely on the hand that still held the weapon in place.

A hand which refused to move from Jacen's throat.

There was a brief, bubbling hiss and a muffled thump. The eyes widened, fixed Jacen with an unknowable, strangely vacant stare, and then rolled into white orbs. Aayla's body fell back, crushing hand and lightsaber falling way with it.

Jacen watched her hit the floor and crumple like a discarded doll. The Twi'lek's back was marred by a long, deep gash that stretched from hip to shoulder. The man stared at the smoking, blackened mark for a long moment, mute, utterly lost in the moment.

After what could have been seconds or an age, Jacen felt his legs begin to give way and had to focus, catching himself before he joined Aayla on the cold floor. Beyond the limp form, he could see Darth Vader, stooped and sagging towards his injured side. The Sith's red-bladed weapon hung loosely from his left hand, its tip gouging the polished stone.

Vader was not staring at the fallen figure. The darkened lenses of his mask displayed muddy reflections of Jacen's pallid features, and the Jedi could feel that the man behind them was utterly fixated upon him. He could feel new tendrils of consciousness, touched with the same aura of darkness that Palpatine's had possessed, but… something more, as well. Curiosity. Trepidation. And suddenly… hope.

Without a second thought, Jacen opened his mind fully to Vader. Memories poured forth, everything that the Jedi could bring to mind and fragments even he could barely recall.

Reminiscences flashed before his eyes. He lay wrapped in his mother's arms, cooing softly as her calming voice lulled him into sleep. He scampered about the floor of the _Millennium Falcon_ with his brother and sister as their father chuckled over them with the tall, kind-hearted Chewbacca. He stared in wonderment at his first lightsaber as it ignited in his grasp, Uncle Luke's steadying hands on his shoulders.

He could feel Vader watching alongside him, utterly engrossed by each fleeting recollection. Almost tenderly, the man sifted through Jacen's childhood, lingering over images and sensations as though they were his own, reluctant to let any fade away. When they came to Jacen's years as a learner at the Jedi Praxeum, discovering the ways of the Force under Luke Skywalker's close, careful tutelage, a swell of emotion washed over Vader, but he endured, savoring every snippet of memory Jacen could offer him.

As quickly as they had bubbled up, the recollections drifted back into Jacen's subconscious, and the two were alone in the darkening throne room again. The man across from Jacen stood outwardly unchanged, his battered, dark armor and swept helmet sinister in his weapon's crimson light. But as the Jedi looked more closely, felt beyond the battle plating and life support mechanisms to the mind beneath, he found something new.

Slowly, Jacen extended an arm towards the other.

"Anakin?"

Aayla's crumpled form convulsed. The movement, at first a few reflexive finger tremors and waist motions, moved swiftly up her back and arms, until her neck began to twitch. All at once, her back arched and she flipped over, limbs splayed wide. Both men took a sharp step away from her, but before either could make any other move, the Twi'lek's chin shot into the air and her eyes and mouth opened wide.

There was a shriek, an echoing, ethereal wail that seemed to resonate from the foundation of the palace itself. Icy wind suddenly whipped across Jacen's face, not from the open Coruscanti sky, but rather the space just in front of him. In a moment, it was a howling gale that meshed with the otherworldly screech and overwhelmed all other sensation. Gritting through the assault, Jacen saw that a hazy light had begun to pour from Aayla. It surged from her mouth and eyes in streams of dense mist that collected a meter above her face, swirling with formless, shadowy patterns. As Jacen watched, the cloud became a thunderhead, charged with violent cracks of lightning.

A wrinkle on the billowing surface of the phenomenon flowed through the churning winds until it faced Jacen, and he could see that it was a face, barely recognizable, but dreadfully familiar. Lightning coursed into its eye sockets, and the visage flared into life. The shapeless maw of its mouth gaped hungrily, and the entity coalesced around the face and surged forward, straight at the Jedi. Jacen's body seemed to be rooted in place, and he could do nothing but watch as the cloud enveloped him and the savage, crackling light and shadow became his world.

"No!"

The booming voice cut through the roar of the gale, and Jacen suddenly felt himself falling. In a moment, he was flat on his back, free of the entity's overwhelming presence. The swirling form still hung above him, but there was something else inside of it too, now, a thrashing mass of black. A glint in the corner of his eye caught Jacen's eye, and he turned his head to find Darth Vader's lightsaber pommel on the floor several meters away, abandoned by its master.

The wailing of the gale sharpened into a screech that seemed to shake the stones on which Jacen lay. The thunderhead churned and compressed, its surface immersed in a storm of arching lightning. The entity disappeared into the swirling light, and when it cleared, Darth Vader stood alone. The reinforced composite of his armor ran like melted glass and the rest of his suit was bathed in bluish fire that constantly guttered and reignited, burning away fabrics design to withstand the harshest extremes of nature.

And yet, the man beneath stood straighter and prouder than Jacen had ever seen before. His right arm still hung limply at his side, but he seemed untroubled by it, his posture wide and steadfast even as his vital coverings melted into the whipping air. As Jacen raised himself onto his arms, the man turned to face him. The sharp, intimidating contours of his mask had dissolved away, leaving a soft, muddy mass and wide eyes that glowed with residual light.

"Tell Leia that I'm sorry," he said in a voice that bore no hint of artificiality or anger. "Tell your mother that I'm proud of her. And when you see Luke again, let him know that… that I love him. Let him know that I always will."

With that, he turned away, stared out at the boundless night sky, and began to run. In a few long strides he was at the brink, and he plunged over it without hesitation. The man plummeted swiftly past darkened windows and vast supports, shedding corroded coverings and trailing a wreath of barbed electricity that still lashed at his body.

As he felt his flesh begin to dissolve into the rushing night air, the man sensed the other mind near his own, and knew it perceived everything he did. But as the world melted away into crisp, white light and the other felt fear, he found only a settling calm. Dark memories faded with sight, and for the first time in far, far too long, Anakin was at peace.

Deep within the Forerunner device's computer system, Cortana registered another fluctuation in the structure of the rift network. This one was much like the first she had perceived, just after accessing the machine's navigation and targeting processor. Smaller and somewhat muted, it nonetheless sent a ripple across the plot of three-dimensional space that represented the functional aspect of the portal device. The AI could only guess at the cause of the distortions, but their effects were all too apparent. They swept over the minute lines and horizons that connected the four major convergences of activity on her plot, bending them out of shape and causing their anchor points to drift.

Her frustration and agitation mounted as she tried to keep track of several strands she had focused on as possible egress lines from her own anchor point. The technology she was trying to comprehend and manipulate was quite unlike anything she'd been programmed to encounter, and her brief experiences with Forerunner virtual systems and half-blind rift travel were the only reasons she wasn't entirely overwhelmed.

The rapidly-ticking mission clock in the back of her mind wasn't helping matters.

Desperate to keep a hold on the shifting, immaterial pathways, she focused on the course of one of them as it wound into a major convergence point. Suddenly, she realized that it terminated quite close to the epicenter of the most recent fluctuation.

_Things have a way of blowing up around you, Chief, whether you set them off or not. Let's hope you're consistent as I know you are. _

* * *

"Jacen?"

Aayla lay against Jacen, her head cradled in his arms.

"Yes, Aayla. I'm here."

She was silent for a long moment, her breath slow and labored. Only one eye was open, its heavily-lidded orb defined by a clouded iris of hazel.

"It's gone."

"Palpatine is gone. For good. You beat him, Aayla."

She coughed weakly.

"I did nothing. I fell. I failed."

Jacen shook his head and placed a hand on one of her limp lekku. It was as cold as the night air.

"If that was true, I wouldn't be here talking to you right now. You fought him. You resisted the dark, and now Palpatine is gone."

"No. No, I didn't resist the dark. I tried to use it. I wanted revenge, Jacen. I wanted it so badly. I needed to destroy him, and I didn't care how I did it. And it worked. At least, I thought…"

She paused.

"I failed the Order."

"That's not true…"

"Yes, Jacen, it is. You might not understand now, but I hope that you do someday." She paused again, waiting until Jacen looked her squarely in her open eye. "To be a Jedi is never to succumb. Never to compromise what we believe in for personal reasons. What I may have done at the end doesn't atone for my failure."

Jacen held her gaze. "You're still a good person. You did what you thought was right. You did what you had to."

Aayla's eye lingered on Jacen for a moment in silence, and then slid shut.

"I can't feel my legs."

Jacen tried not to glance at her withered body. Even without much training as a healer, he knew that she was well beyond help.

"I can carry you," he said, trying to sound cheerful. "We should get going soon. I wouldn't really choose this place to set up camp. With all the trouble, I forgot to bring blankets."

The Twi'lek didn't reply.

"How about it? Aayla?"

Jacen looked down at her calm, set features, and knew.

* * *

R2-D2 hummed and beeped busily as he interfaced with the security routing hub that was imbedded in one wall of the small communications room. Aside from the holographic projector that took up one corner of the space and the large section of grating that the Master Chief had forcibly removed to reveal the hub propped against another wall, there was plenty of room for the astromech to bustle from port to port as he looked for the correct data feed and plumbed tertiary networks for lightly-encrypted backdoors. The Chief and Reginald Barclay stood well out of his way, flanking the chamber's only door as they waited.

After a few minutes, R2-D2 disengaged from the last access slot and turned to face his new human companions, emitting a triumphant tone.

"What's it saying?" the Chief asked Barclay.

The engineer stared at the droid curiously.

"I'm not sure, but it does sound happy."

The tone went flat with tired exasperation, and R2 made for the door. It opened automatically and he rolled out into the hall without incident. Cautiously, the two followed.

"We must be being followed," Barclay remarked as the trio moved down a long, windowless hallway, identical to virtually every other one they had encountered on the level. "Imperials don't give up so easily. I mean, we're still in their facility. They should be able to track our every move, and I don't see why they'd let us avoid them like this."

The Chief was somewhat annoyed with Barclay's nervous chatter, but he had to admit the man made a good point. They hadn't run into as much as a cleaning droid since Barclay had been freed. They're progress hadn't been exactly covert, and the only real effort they'd made to cover their tracks were the astromech droid's periodic stops next to control terminals. At first, the Chief had suspect that the little machine was simply locking doors and checking floor plans, but the fact that they'd avoided patrols for so long indicated that the droid was more skilled than he gave it credit for.

Indeed, each passing minute that they didn't come face to face with a squad of stormtroopers made him more and more suspicious of the astromech. It was clearly more than just a piece of service of equipment, and neither man could guess why it had been attached to Darth Vader's detail. Nevertheless, it was keeping them alive and out of enemy hands, and for the moment, that was all that mattered.

Besides, there was a more pressing concern on the Chief's mind.

"Sixteen minutes until pickup," he muttered, checking his mission clock for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"Are we close to where you were dropped?" Barclay asked.

The Chief checked his motion tracker, still mostly useless, and took stock of their recent movements.

"We should be close to the evac point, but we're still thirty levels too high."

Barclay frowned.

"Then shouldn't we be looking for lifts? I know you don't want to use them, but what other option do we have? The service tubes didn't work out."

They had attempted to descend by way of a service conduit they had located, but it was only traversable for a few levels before it split into dozens of smaller channels and pipeways. Plainly, the architects of the facility had been somewhat more security-minded than the designers behind most Starfleet vessels.

Slowly, the Chief nodded.

"We'll have to use them. Hopefully, your little friend can keep the lifts covered and working all the way down."

As if responding to the conversation, the R2 unit issued a few high notes and turned down a side passage. After a dozen or so meters, they came to another doorway, and R2-D2 indicated towards it with a spin of his head. With Barclay covering him a safe distance down the hallway with his blaster rifle, the Chief backed next to the door, opened it, and after a 'clear' signal from the engineer spun inward, weapon at the ready.

He found himself in a small turbolift chamber. Five doors adorned the bare walls; three leading to awaiting turbolift shafts, his entryway, and another on the opposite side of the room that looked as though it had been sealed shut with a welding torch. Beyond it, muffed shouting put the Chief immediately on edge. He might have withdrawn outright, had it not been for the room's occupants.

Leaning against the far turbolift, Jacen Solo sat with his lightsaber lit in one hand. Propped next to him, the frail, limp body of a blue-skinned woman lolled, her eyes closed. The Chief immediately recognized Aayla Secura, remembering the desperate flight from the Poloon system, where he'd seen her last.

"Chief," Jacen said, clearly exhausted. "I'd been hoping you'd find your way here soon. I ran into some trouble on the way, and I'm not sure how long it'll take them to get through." He nodded towards the partially-melted door.

Keeping one eye on the door, the Chief moved to Jacen's side, Barclay and R2 close behind. The Jedi nodded weakly when he saw the astromech, but the droid showed no sign of recognition.

"Does she need medical attention?" the Chief asked kneeling next to Aayla. He knew the answer before Jacen responded.

"She's one with the Force, now. I just couldn't leave her here."

The Chief nodded, turning his attention to the young man. There would be time for questions later.

"What about you?"

"I'm just… tired."

"Chief," Barclay said anxiously. Jacen's sudden appearance had been enough to mollify his nerves briefly, but a low banging had begun beyond the sealed door. The R2 unit added his own warning tone.

"Can you walk?" the Chief asked Jacen.

He nodded, quite unconvincingly.

"Barclay, help the Jedi into this lift."

The ride was cramped but uneventful. R2-D2 took a few moments to negotiate with the lift computer, but it quickly dropped them the number of levels the Chief indicated, and they exited into yet another empty hallway. Nonetheless, the Spartan felt particularly compromised, burdened now by Aayla's body, even though he hadn't objected to Jacen's request to bring it along. The Jedi moved quickly enough with Barclay's support, and within a few minutes, they were back on ground the Chief recognized.

Their luck didn't hold.

After passing through several abandoned security checkpoints, the Chief walked headfirst into a pair of Imperial personnel. Fortunately, the technician and black-uniformed army officer had their backs turned to the doorway, occupied with a security display, and the Chief had time to shift Aayla to one shoulder and level both before they could do more than draw their blaster pistols. Nevertheless, one managed to key an alert button on his comlink before he fell, and although no audible alarm sounded, the Chief knew their time was up.

The rest of the way to the long, windowed hallway was a running gunfight. Evidently, the facility's guard had been deployed in full force to try and locate the intruders, and the R2 unit's diversions had done little more than slow their search. They ran into two more pockets of soldiers before rounding the corner into the dead-end hallway, and could hear more echoing down the corridors after them.

"I don't see anything," Barclay said as they came to the end of the passageway, now brightly-lit against the night sky. He eased Jacen, who now barely seemed to be conscious, against a wall. The Chief did the same, laying the Twi'lek out near where the rippling distortion had appeared before.

"It hasn't been reactivated," he replied. The clock was at two hours, fifty-eight minutes. They were early.

Shouting emanated from down the adjoining hallway, and the sound of multiple, rapid footfalls soon joined it. The Chief checked the ammo in his blaster and indicated that Barclay do the same. Unimpressed by the remaining load-out, he glanced down at Jacen's lightsaber and considered briefly, but decided against it. If the guns weren't enough to buy them time, he wasn't about to go down waving an energy sword like a lunatic. That only worked if one could see the blaster bolts coming, and even _he_ wasn't that fast.

"Grab Solo!" the Chief ordered. "Get as close to the wall as you can!"

Barclay hurried to comply, fumbling with his blaster as he pulled the other man against the flat surface.

Two hours, fifty-nine minutes, ten seconds.

The Chief kneeled a few meters in front of Barclay, placing himself directly in any attacker's line of fire. His shields wouldn't take many blaster bolts, but if worse came to worse, it could buy the others a few more seconds. Just as he lined his rifle up, the first white-armored head appeared, right in the iron sight.

He smiled. Sometimes, it was the little things.

After the first three troopers dropped without firing a shot, their pursuers smartened up somewhat and slowed their advance. Readjusting his sight, the Chief could tell that they were massing just out of view. At least three officers, judging by the voices, and probably five times that number in grunts. Fleetingly, the Chief wished he'd saved one of the jury-rigged phaser grenades from the assault on Kerrigan's citadel.

"Brace yourself!" he called backed to Barclay. "They're about to make a push!"

By way of response, a blaster bolt tore down the hallway from behind him and nearly took the shoulder off of a trooper who'd edged too close.

_That's the spirit._

Two hours, fifty-nine minutes, fifty-eight seconds. Time.

Three stormtroopers appeared at the end of the hallway, E-11s blazing. The Chief responded in kind and knocked down one before the others could even draw a bead on him. He felt three shots sheer over his head, and gasped as another punched him in the gut. His energy shield exploded with luminescence, and the indicators on his HUD burned bright red. The barrier wouldn't withstand another direct hit.

The surviving soldiers had already disappeared from view, however. The Chief was momentarily confused, until he saw the squat, cylindrical device rolling down the hallway towards him.

_Ah. _

"Cover!" he yelled over his shoulder, swiftly backpedaling.

There was no response.

For a terrible moment, the Chief expected to find Barclay with a gaping hole in his chest, but when he reached the end of the hallway, there was no one there at all, save Aayla's body. It only took the Chief a moment to realize that the once-solid wall was rippling like pond water on a windy day.

The Spartan didn't pause. In an instant, the Twi'lek was in his arms, and in the next, Coruscant, the ambling grenade, and throng of shortly bewildered soldiers were memories.

The last thing that the Chief registered before he slipped into the rift was the mission clock, displaying 3:00:11:70.

_Funny. Very funny. _


	56. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Jean-Luc Picard cradled the small, glass teacup in his hands, enjoying the warmth of the brown, steaming liquid inside. He held it beneath his nose and inhaled deeply, allowing the rich, faintly citrusy aroma to wash over him. When the rising tendrils of vapor had thinned, he raised the cup to his lips and sipped the infusion delicately.

Bitter.

Frowning, Picard lowered the cup and placed it on the long, uncluttered desk before him. He looked at it for a few moments, and then sighed. For some reason, the ship's replicators didn't seem to be capable of producing a good cup of Earl Grey. He pivoted his chair away from the cup and removed a datapad from the desk. The captain reminded himself to have a technician come in to look at his ready room's replicator as soon as one was available. Non-essential food processors were quite low on the _Enterprise-E_'s maintenance schedule of late.

Picard activated the tablet and began to scan through its contents. He had read it all before, multiple times: damage reports from his engineering crews, after-battle statistics for the entire Allied fleet, preliminary surveying of Earth's surface. The captain thumbed past recent reports from ground teams dispatched to the planet's surface to begin the task of wresting Earth from the Zerg. Kerrigan and her Celebrates were gone, but her forces still infested every continent, feral and unpredictable. Some early estimates placed their numbers in the billions, and no one was sure if the creatures would simply die off without their masters, or if every last one would eventually have to be hunted down. Either way, the battle to reclaim Earth was far from over.

To say that the push to Kerrigan's fortress and the corresponding orbital engagement had been costly was a drastic understatement. The commanders of the Allied Fleet had known going in that they were fundamentally a diversion for the ground assault and would be both outnumbered and pinned against Earth's atmosphere, but that didn't lessen the sting of the losses that they had sustained. Of the five space-borne battle groups of the Fleet, numbering 278 hulls at the beginning of the battle, only 104 had survived until Kerrigan fled Earth and the Zerg defense collapsed, and well over half of those had suffered severe damage. Picard's group Vulcan and the primarily-Klingon Qo'nos had been hit the hardest, with the latter suffering almost total losses. General K'Nera had barely survived the annihilation of his battle group, and only a dozen functioning Klingon ships were left in the Allied Fleet.

The statistics belied the valor and skill of the Fleet's commanders and crew, however. Reviewing the disposition of the enemy force and the suicidal ferocity of the Zerg counterattack after the fact, Picard was astonished that at any of them had survived at all. The performance of Lt. Commander Addel's fighter squadrons and the _Millennium Falcon_ were particularly outstanding; they had scored three confirmed Cerebrate kills and formed the lynchpin of both the initial breakthrough and Battle Group Earth's deployment, at the cost of six starfighters and pilots. General Solo alone had destroyed more infested vessels than the _Enterprise_'s entire combat squadron.

Accounts from the African savanna told a similar story. Only a handful of the troop-laden hulls had made it past the Zerg aerial defenses, and most of the soldiers who fought their way to the Kilimanjaro hive were wiped out, but small strike teams under the command of the Master Chief, Major Truul Besteen, and Commander Worf had nonetheless managed to disrupt the enemy perimeter and deliver High Templar Tassadar to his target. Kerrigan had fled, and both she and the Protoss were now missing, but her fortress and the alien transportation device that it housed were in Allied hands.

All told, Earth had cost them more than 30,000 lives. Flipping through column of names and serial numbers, Picard told himself that it had been worth it. He knew that their sacrifice had been necessary, and indeed, vital; without their Queen, dead or in flight, the Zerg were beaten.

And yet, the victory seemed hollow.

Through the small window of his ready room, Picard could see a small portion of the Earth's gentle curvature rolling by. He saw flecks of green on a plain of dusty brown, and a matte of dark blue beyond. Humanity's cradle had survived the infestation. It had been scarred and beaten, but it would flourish again, in time. But, as for its children…

A short while later, the room's door chirped.

"Come in," Picard said. He had left the datapad at his desk, and was standing at a wall terminal.

The door slid open and Fleet Admiral Nechayev walked in. Her poof of blonde hair bore a few more strands of white and her cheeks a few more wrinkles, but she seemed outwardly much as she had been before the final assault. The real change in her had taken Picard several meetings to recognize, but as he moved to greet her now, it was impossible to miss. The keenness in her tired eyes was dull now, and her air of determination spent.

Nechayev eyed the terminal.

"I'm not interrupting anything, I hope."

Picard shook his head and stepped to one side, revealing the screen. It displayed a bright, outdoor scene, a cobble-stoned street lined with colorful cafes and low, antiquated buildings. In the background, a silver spire soared into the cloudless sky, glinting in the sun.

"Just reminiscing." He glanced back at the image. "Paris, just off the Seine. I always used to visit this street during stopovers at Earth. There was a little bakery there, and…" Picard trailed off. "I'm sorry, Admiral. You didn't come here for this."

Nechayev lingered on the scene. "I visited Paris once, when I was nineteen. I always wanted to go back, but I never had the time."

Picard looked at her for a moment, and then nodded slowly.

"There is always something like that, isn't there? The little things you always expect to come back to, until they're gone." He exhaled, took one last look at the airy, cheerful glimpse, and deactivated the display.

"Please." Picard indicated to a chair, and both officers seated themselves at the desk. "Tea?"

Nechayev passed a critical eye over the full cup. "Yours didn't suit you?"

The captain grimaced slightly. "Ah, yes. The replicators aren't quite up to specifications at the moment. Something else, perhaps?"

Nechayev waved a hand. "No, thank you. Frankly, though, I could have used the caffeine an hour ago."

Picard nodded. "Commander Suran."

"The Romulans are leaving the system as we speak. I tried to convince the Commander to stay until after the memorial ceremony, but he insisted that the Romulan Senate demanded the immediate return of his task force. I have no doubt of that, but it was plain that he still doesn't buy our claims of innocence."

Picard sank back into his chair and steepled his hands in front of his chest. "Suran is an intelligent man. There was never much chance that he would believe that the timely and unwilling arrival of his task force or the phantom Zerg fleet were random occurrences. He suspects, and for all Cortana's efforts, there's a good chance that he'll find something to link the incident back to us."

The circumstances surrounding the entrance of Suran's unit of warbirds late in the battle were still top-secret, known only to Picard, Nechayev, Cortana, and a handful of others. The ships had served to disrupt the enemy assault and significantly boost the morale of the Allied forces in their darkest hour, and Picard was certain that they had played a crucial role in staving off the all-out massacre that should have occurred. As far as most everyone knew, Romulan crews included, the Star Empire had intended to aid their humanoid compatriots all along. Suran and his officers were hailed as heroes, and the Commander had decided to keep the truth of the event under wraps. Nevertheless, the task force had sustained significant casualties for its efforts, and Picard knew that Romulans were not prone to let mysteries go unanswered and misusage unavenged.

"We'll have to hope that Cortana is as good at covering her tracks as she says she is." Nechayev shook her head. "We can't risk antagonizing the Romulans right now. As things stand, they're the only major power in the quadrant with anything approaching an intact military and infrastructural base. If we keep them the champions of this thing, they might just give the rest of us time to get back on track."

Picard leaned forward, his eyebrows raised. "Back on track, Admiral?"

Nechayev sighed. "I know what you're thinking, Captain. Kerrigan is gone, one can only hope for good, but she left a mark unlike any we've ever had to deal with before. Most of the Federation is like Earth, half-dead and covered in feral Zerg. The Council is all but gone, and Starfleet is what little we have assembled in orbit. The Klingons, the Cardassians… they're even worse off than we are. How can things go back to the way they were?"

Picard waited quietly for her to continue, but he could see the answer on her face just as clearly as he felt it in his own gut.

"We can't," she said at last. "Maybe the machine buried in that mountain down there holds an answer to our problems, or perhaps our Alliance friends do, but as things are now, the Federation is finished. We may have taken back Earth, but what we started there can't be recovered. When Kerrigan started this war, she killed the Federation just as surely as she killed the seventy billion that followed it."

Picard nodded stiffly. He had come to that realization before the battle for Earth had even commenced, but to hear someone like Nechayev voice it so definitively truly drove it home.

The admiral allowed the thought to settle for a minute, and then pulled something from a pocket of her uniform. It was a simple, black box, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand as she offered it across the desk to Picard.

"This is why I stopped by," she said. "Take it."

With a moment of hesitation, Picard picked the box from the woman's hand and turned it over in his own. He didn't need to open it to know what lay inside. A small, golden bar enclosing a line of four pips. The mark of the admiralty.

When Picard made no sign of opening the box or speaking, Nechayev continued.

"The Federation may have been defeated, but Starfleet remains. This Fleet, and all it stands for, still remains. There are billions of people out there right now, Vulcan, Klingon, Cardassian, and human alike, celebrating what we accomplished here. They needed heroes, and now they have them. Every single man and woman who fought in this system is a hero, both for what they did, and what they represent."

"But more than heroes, they need leaders. There are far too few left, and this struggle is far from over. We need good men, officers who are able to inspire and willing to take chances. You are a good man, Jean-Luc, and a one of the finest soldiers I've ever had the privilege of serving with. Duty demands that you take the next step."

Picard stared at her for a long time, and then looked back at the box. With a nudge of his thumb, he pushed the top up, just enough to see the bit of metal inside.

"I suppose I won't have to worry about being stuck at a desk if I take this now, will I?"

At last, Nechayev cracked a thin smile.

"You may miss that luxury yet, Admiral. I know I do."

* * *

The Master Chief stood at ease in the turbolift, watching soft lights rush by as the capsule propelled him along the _Enterprise-E_'s length. The space was vacant and quiet, save for the soft hum of the electromagnets that guided the compartment through its shaft. To the Spartan, it seemed like days since he had found such a calm spot. The rest of the vessel was crawling with engineering teams and reassigned crewmen who had lost their own ships during the battle, but not here.

And yet, he was not alone.

"Sometimes, I wonder if you ever take this thing off," Cortana groused, making little effort to hide the playful tone the Chief knew so well. "I think an occasion like this might benefit from a bit more human interaction on your part. Not everyone can see past the stoic and battle-hardened veneer you like to carry around."

The Chief looked down at the dull green plating of his MJONIR armor. He had taken the time to clean and polish it, but the suit still bore months-worth of dents and burns from a dozen battles. Its internal components were even worse for wear; if he ever made it back to the UNSC, the Chief wouldn't envy the technicians assigned to repair it.

"Maybe that's the way people should see me," he replied. "This suit is what I am." He could tell Cortana was about to fire back with something, and hurried to cut her off. "Besides, I lost my luggage somewhere around Reach. If you see a tailor who sells UNSC dress uniforms, let me know."

He heard the AI laugh, and almost laughed himself. Having her back, close to his thoughts, was an enormous relief, enough to dispel the residual tension of the mission to Earth. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to have the little, faintly cool presence at the back of his mind, and now that it was back, he never wanted to let it go again.

"I'll see what I can do," Cortana said. "Anyways, _I_ don't really mind. I'm not that good at social events. I'd much rather tag along in here and let you do all the talking."

"Sure. That'll happen."

The turbolift came to a stop and the Chief stepped out. Immediately, he was thrust back into a stream of activity, and moved out of the way as a group of ensigns hurried into the empty lift. The corridor beyond was lined with dotted with exposed wall conduits, and as the Chief moved into it, he had to navigate around small knots of engineers as they replaced fried isolinear chips and realigned loose wiring.

"So, why did you decide to come up?" he asked as he walked. "I've heard about the progress you're making with the Forerunner portal, and I thought I'd have to go planetside again to dig you out of it."

"It was hard to leave." She was suddenly engaged, energized by the change of subject. "You wouldn't believe some of the stuff I've found in its data cores. Kerrigan's story about the multi-dimensional empire you told me about? I'm beginning to believe it. I've found primary subroutines in the targeting array that seem to lead to three other installations like the one under Kilimanjaro. It's a good bet that there's one in our reality, and High Templar Tassadar's, and the Alliance's. I haven't translated nearly enough of the functional programming to know for sure yet, but I think that the off-location anomalies in each universe are each tied to their respective facility."

"Any word on Tassadar?"

Cortana took on a more somber tone. "Not since the last time you asked. I'm still keeping an eye on rift activity as best I can, but I haven't seen any movement since I pulled you back. The system registered some pretty big distortions, and if he was actually in… whatever the space the rifts exist in is when they happened, my hopes for him haven't improved. Of course, the same goes for Kerrigan."

She paused briefly.

"Did you tell the Jedi?"

"I did," the Chief said. "But I don't think I had to."

Cortana was silent for a few moments before continuing, her vigor restored.

"I'm making good progress on codifying the device's functional characteristics, but something that's been bothering me about it is the rifts that Kerrigan projected all over place, like the one that caught us. I haven't been able to figure out how to open any new ones, but I've found several of the anomalies that she made, still open – I'm not certain yet, but I think a few of the stable ones might even lead back to Covenant space, or at least our own universe. In any event, I think I've uncovered a few drivers related to remote rift creation, but the thing is, I haven't found anything that should be able modify temporal correlation."

"Meaning?"

"Time, Chief. You remember when I accidentally dropped the _Republica_ near Reach. The Covenant Armada was still bombarding the planet; somehow, travel through the rifts had brought us back twenty-one days. When we escaped and ended up back in this reality, what should have been well under a month was actually seven years. Jacen Solo also reported displacement; in his world, the Galactic Empire had fallen from dominance decades before. In short, there is an obvious temporal element to the rift device's functionality."

"But I can't find any evidence of it. From what you saw on Coruscant and what little data I've been able to gather from the anomalies that are still open and connected to the device, the timeline of each universe is both unitary and constant with every other one. Unless I'm wrong, the current, fourth-dimensional coordinate of each reality, the ones we've seen most recently, are the only ones that an individual traveling through an anomaly could reach."

"So, no more time travel." The thought suited the Chief just fine.

"Not unless I can figure out how Kerrigan did it. Maybe there's an element of the device beyond its physical components. We know she was a powerful telepath. Perhaps the rifts respond in a way that I can't predict to extra-physical stimulus. Solo's abilities are different, at least as I understand it, but perhaps if he were to come back down to the facility and…"

"Later," the Chief said firmly, stopping in front of a set of wide doors, set with Starfleet's arrow-and-streak emblem. Numerous, muffled voices sounded from beyond.

"Of course," Cortana said quickly, turning her attention back to their surroundings. "So… this is the place, I believe. Shall we?"

* * *

Jacen Solo sat near the corner of the _Enterprise_'s banquet hall, wedged onto the sill that framed one of the wide windows lining its outer wall. Positioned with one leg propped on the narrow platform and his arms crossed, he looked out, lost in thought. To his right, Earth's southern hemisphere hung, full and beautiful for all the dark marks scratched and spattered across its surface. To his left, a mass of bodies stood, each lost in their own thoughts, overcome by reverent silence.

The memorial had drawn people from all over the Allied Fleet, and, as word of the costly victory had already spread far across space, beyond. Jacen had seen Captain Picard, Commander Data, Worf, and much of what remained of the _Enterprise-D_'s crew, spoken briefly with a few of them. Admiral Nechayev and Captain Gehirn were there, along with several other high-ranking officers of the Fleet. General K'Nera was not among them, still confined to medical quarters for injuries sustained during the assault.

Others were in attendance, as well, dressed in a hodgepodge of crisp dress uniforms and hastily-cleaned combat fatigues. Major Truul and the Master Chief stood across the room from him, both looking distinctly uncomfortable. Closer to the center, Commander Addel was in a place of honor, his face a mask of pride and sadness.

Just within view, behind a rank of rank of Klingons and Cardassians in full battle garb, Jacen could see another contingent, arrived from Bajor only hours before. Captain Ryceed was there, pale-looking and off-balance, but resolute. She was supported by the First Minister of the Bajoran people, one of a handful of chiefs-of-state who had traveled to Earth for the ceremony.

And, standing with them, surrounded by Chewbacca and the newly-reunited C-3PO and R2-D2, were his parents.

_Tell Leia that I'm sorry. Tell your mother that I'm proud of her._

Anakin's words had stayed with him constantly since the flight from Coruscant, and his mother's appearance instilled them with fresh potency. Even now, in the middle of the packed hall, he wanted to go to her, tell her everything that had happened, tell both his parents who he really was. The urge to establish a connection with them had been there since he had first seen them on the Alliance flagship, but now it was all but irresistible.

And yet, he did resist, if only for a little longer. Their lives were already changed utterly from the pasts of the Han and Leia he knew; Jacen didn't want to complicate things any further, for his sake as much as theirs.

Still, if Cortana couldn't figure out a way to get everyone home, truly home…

_Patience. One way or the other, the time will come. _

The ceremony was somber, quiet, and low-key. Nechayev and few others had already spoken of valor and sacrifice, and now Picard was adding his own words, a solemn remembrance for the fallen. In spite of himself, Jacen slipped back into his thoughts, his eyes fixed distractedly on the slowly rotating orb beyond the window.

He remembered Aayla, valiant and strong, and yet sorrowful in the end.

He remembered Anakin, resplendent in the Light, redeemed again as he had fallen, to protect what he loved.

He remembered Commander Riker and so many others, lost before they could see the triumph their labors had bought.

And he remembered Tassadar. Events on Coruscant had pushed the Templar's last, desperate request from his mind, but there, in the reflected light of the scarred world, it came back. He had wanted the Jedi to do what fate had not permitted of him. The Protoss needed a savior, if there were any left to be saved, and that burdened had fallen to Jacen.

But was he ready to be a savior, even if he did find some way to reach Tassadar's people? Now, more than ever, he was unsure. That wrenching moment in the Emperor's throne room was still with him, the pure, unrelenting logic of the darkness, and the power he had touched in its course. More, he remembered the Templar's own view of the Dark and the Light, and how they had seemed to coexist in him. What would he find if he sought out more of the mighty species? What experiences and arcane wisdom might color his inner being?

He was afraid. Afraid of the future. Afraid of the past. Afraid of himself.

There was movement close by, and Jacen looked up. Laura had taken a seat next to him, and was watching Picard intently as he continued his commemoration. As Jacen stared at her, brooding thoughts diminished in the glow of her skin against the distant stars, a smile spread across her lips. She turned slightly to face him, and extended a hand.

He took it.


End file.
